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Issued Monthly 



Extra Number E 



December, 1888 



^a^mmm^&^mm 




DIALOGUES AND SCENES 



FROM THE WRITINGS OF 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

BY 

EMILY WEAVER 



( 

( 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

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%\)t Hitersiue ^literature &erie0 






DIALOGUES AND SCENES 



FROM THE WRITINGS OF 

HARRIET , BEECHER STOWE 



ARRANGED BY 

EMILY WEAVER 





HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

Boston: 4 Park Street; New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 



1889 



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r>^ 



Copyright, 1888, 
Bt HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

All rights reserved. 



O ly -J 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
Electrotyped and Trinted by 11. 0. Houghton & Co. 



PEEFATORY NOTE. 



The use to which the following little work may be 
put is twofold. It offers to schools which desire to hold 
some special exhibition material for simple and easily- 
effected dramatic representation ; and it provides classes 
also with lively and spirited dialogue for reading exer- 
cises. 

Great care has been taken to adhere to the original 
text as closely as possible ; and in order to make the dia- 
logue clear and to explain the action, explanatory pas- 
sages from the book in which the dialogue occurs are 
added from time to time. They are distinguished from 
the parts to be acted by being printed in smaller type 
and enclosed in brackets [ ]. 

The costumes and properties for the scenes will not 
generally be found hard to procure, and a little ingenuity 
will often remove apparent difficulties. It is not the 
elaborate, but the simple and inexpensive setting of dra- 
matic scenes which gives most pleasure on the school- 
stage. 

It will often be found, however, that a spirited and 
attractive representation will be secured, simply by as- 
signing the several parts to different pupils, and ex- 
pecting them by their fidelity in reading the parts to 
convey to the school or audience the effect intended by 
the author to be produced. In this manner the dialogues 
will offer a pleasing change in reading exercises, and the 
readers will become familiar with the writing of one of 
the most eminent of American authors. 



CONTENTS. 

♦ 

PAGE 

Senator Bird. In Five Scenes. From "Uncle Tom's 
Cabin" 5 

The Way she "was Raised." In Two Scenes. From 
"Old Town Folks" 30 

Dinah's Kitchen. In Two Scenes. From "Uncle Tom's 
Cabin" 47 

Who would Marry a Minister ? In Two Scenes. From 
"The Minister's Wooing" 59 

The Art of Bediviaking. In One Scene. From "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin" 68 

The Power of Love. In One Scene. From " Uncle Tom's 
Cabin" 76 

The Practical Test. In One Scene. From "The Min- 
ister's Wooing " 82 

The Village Do-nothing. In One Scene. From "Old 
Town Folks" 88 

Sam Lawson's Thanksgiving Dinner. In One Scene. 
From "Old Town Folks" 93 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Bird, the senator. 

Mrs. Bird, a little, blue- eyed, rosy-cheeked woman. 

Tom, ) 

Jim, > children of Mr. and Mrs. Bird. 

Mary, ) 

Eliza, a good-looking- quadroon (very nearly white), with black 
eyes and hair. 

Harry, her son, a boy of between four and five years of age, 
with black hair and dark eyes. 

CuDJOE, an old negro, servant to Mr. Bird. 

Dinah, an old negress, servant to Mrs. Bird. 

John van Trompe, a very big, sandy-haired, rough-looking 



COSTUMES. 

Mr. Bird. A dark-colored suit of clothes ; a pair of worked 
slippers ; spectacles ; and in Scenes IV. and V. an overcoat and 
boots. 

Mrs. Bird. A full-skirted black dress; hair parted in the 
middle, and arranged very low on the temples, and coiled or 
twisted at the back of the head. 

Tom and Jim, in short trowsers and blouses fastened round the 
waist with a belt. 

Mary, in short frock and white pinafore. 

Eliza, in Scenes II. and III. in a torn dress, soiled and splashed, 
only one shoe, and torn stockings. In Scene IV. a neat dark dress, 
a shawl, and a bonnet. 

Harry, " a gay robe of scarlet and yellow plaid, carefully 
made and neatly fitted." 

Cudjoe and Dinah, neatly and plainly dressed. Dinah with 
apron. 

John van Trompe must wear a red flannel shirt, and no collar 
or tie. 



ANALYSIS OF SCENES: PROPERTIES. 



ANALYSIS OF SCENES: PROPERTIES. 

ScE^'E I. A parlor in Mr, Bird's house, with exit. Mrs. Bird 
denounces the new law against helping escaped slaves, and an- 
nounces her intention of breaking it as soon as she gets a chance 
Her husband defends the law, and says that he has voted for it. 

Properties. Chairs, table, rocking-chair, rug, and carpet suit- 
able for parlor ; cups and saucers, teapot, etc., camphor-bottle ; 
newspaper ; boots. Pictures on the walls, and curtains. 

Scene II. Kitchen in Mr. Bird's house, with exit. Eliza begs 
Mrs. Bird to protect her, and the senator suggests that they 
should give her some clothes. 

Properties. Plain chairs and table, settle. (Bright tins and 
dish-covers may be hung on the walls, or a shelf holding plates and 
dishes may be shown ; in fact, any articles that will assist to give 
the idea of a kitchen will be appropriate to this scene.) 

Scene III. Same as in Scene II. Eliza gives an account of 
her escape. 

Properties. Same as in Scene II. 

Scene IV. Same as in Scene I. Mr. Bird decides to take 
Eliza to a place of safety. 

Properties. Same as in Scene I., omitting the teapot, cups 
and saucers. Also a dress and some clothes for little boy ; needle, 
scissors, thimble, etc. 

Scene V. Kitchen in Van Trompe's house, with exit. Mr. 
Bird puts Eliza under the protection of John van Trompe. 

Properties. Rough furniture ; two or three rifles on the 
walls. Two candles and candlesticks. Ten-dollar bill. 



SENATOR BIRD. 



Scene I. A parlor, 

[The light of the cheerful fire shines on the rug and carpet 
of a cosy parlor, and glitters on the sides of the teacups 
and well-brightened teapot, as Senator Bird is drawing off 
his boots, preparatory to inserting his feet in a pair of new 
handsome slippers, which his wife has been working for him 
while he was away on his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, look- 
ing the very picture of delight, superintends the arrangements 
of the table, ever and anon mingling admonitory remarks 
to a number of frolicsome juveniles, who are effervescing 
in all those modes of untold gambol and mischief that have 
astonished mothers ever since the Flood.] 

Curtain rises on Mr. and Mrs. Bird and their children. 

MRS. BIRD. 

Tom, let the door-knob alone ; there 's a man ! 
Mary, Mary ! don't pull the cat's tail. Poor pussy ! 
Jim, you must n't climb on that table ; no, no ! 
You don't know, my dear [to her husband] , what a 
surprise to us all to see you here to-night ! 

MR. BIRD. 

Yes, yes, I thought I 'd just make a run down, 
spend the night, and have a little comfort at home. 
I 'm tired to death, and my head aches ! 



8 SENATOR BIRD. 

[Mrs. Bird casts a glance at a camphor-bottle which stands 
in the half -open closet, and appears to meditate an ap- 
proach to it, but her husband interposes.] 

No, no, Mary, no doctoring! A cup of your 
good hot tea and some of our good home living is 
what I want. It 's a tiresome business, this legis- 
lating ! 

[And the senator smiles as if he rather liked the idea of 
considering himself a sacrifice to his country.] 

MRS. BIRD. 

Well, and what have they been doing in the 
Senate ? 

MR. BIRD. 

[opening his eyes in surprise at the question. ] 
Not very much of importance. 

MRS. BIRD. 

Well ; but is it true that they have been passing 
a law forbidding people to give meat and drink to 
those poor colored folks that come along ? I heard 
they were talking of some such law, but I did n't 
think any Christian legislature would pass it ! 

MR. BIRD. 

Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician 
all at once. 

MRS. BIRD. 

No, nonsense ! I would n't give a fig for all your 
politics generally, but I think this is something 



SENATOR BIRD. 9 

downright cruel and unchristian. I hope, my dear, 
no such law has been passed. 

MR. BIRD. 

There has been a law passed forbidding people 
to help off the slaves that come over from Ken- 
tucky, my dear. So much of that thing has been 
done by these reckless Abolitionists, that our breth- 
ren in Kentucky are very strongly excited, and it 
seems necessary, and no more than christian and 
kind, that something should be done by our State 
to quiet the excitement. 

MRS. BIRD. 

And what is the law? It doesn't forbid us to 
shelter these poor creatures a night, does it ; and to 
give 'em something comfortable to eat and a few 
old clothes, and to send them quietly about their 
business ? 



MR. BIRD. 



Why, yes, my dear ; that would be aiding and 
abetting, you know. 

[Mrs. Bird is a timid, blushing little woman about four 
feet in height, with mild blue eyes and a peach-blow com- 
plexion, and the gentlest, sweetest voice in the world. . . . 
There is only one thing that is capable of arousing her, 
and that provocation comes in on the side of her unusually 
gentle and sympathetic nature : anything in the shape of 
cruelty will throw her into a passion which is the more 
alarming and inexplicable in proportion to the general soft- 
ness of her nature. On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rises 



10 SENATOR BIRD. 

quickly, with very red cheeks, which quite improve her gen- 
eral appearance, and walks up to her husband, with quite a 
resolute air, and speaks in a determined tone.] 

MRS. BIRD. 

Now, John, I want to know if you think such a 
law as that is right and Christian ? 

MR. BIRD. 

You won't shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do ! 

MRS. BIRD. 

I never could have thought it of you, John ; you 
did n't vote for it ? 

MR. BIRD. 

Even so, my fair politician. 

MRS. BIRD. 

You ought to be ashamed, John ! Poor, home- 
less, houseless creatures ! It 's a shameful, wicked, 
abominable law, and I '11 break it, for one, the first 
time I get a chance ; and I hope I shall have a 
chance, I do ! Things have got to a pretty pass, if 
a woman can't give a warm supper and a bed to 
poor starving creatures, just because they are slaves 
and have been abused and oppressed all their lives, 
poor things ! 

MR. BIRD. 

But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are 
all quite right, dear, and interesting, and I love you 



SENATOR BIRD. 11 

for them ; but then, dear, we must n't suffer our 
feelings to run away with our judgment ; you must 
consider it 's not a matter of private feeling, — there 
are great public interests involved : there is such a 
state of public agitation rising that we must put 
aside our private feelings. 

MRS. BIRD. 

Now, John, I don't know anything about politics, 
but I can read my Bible ; and there I see that I 
must feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and com- 
fort the desolate ; and that Bible I mean to follow. 

MR. BIRD. 

But in cases where your doing so would involve 
a great public evil — 

MRS. BIRD. 

Obeying God never brings on public evils. I 
know it can't. It 's always safest, all round, to do 
as He bids us. 

MR. BIRD. 

Now listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a 
very clear argument, to show — 

MRS. BIRD. 

Oh, nonsense, John ! you can talk all night, but 
you would n't do it. I put it to you, John : would 
you now turn away a poor, shivering, hungry crea- 



12 SENATOR BIRD. 

ture from your door, because he was a runaway ? 
Would you now ? 

[Now, if the truth must be told, our senator has the misfor- 
^ tune to be a man who has a particularly humane and acces- 
sible nature, and turning away anybody that is in trouble 
never has been his forte. So he has recourse to the usual 
means of gaining time for such cases made and provided ; 
he says "ahem," and coughs several times, takes out his 
pocket-handkerchief, and begins to wipe his glasses.] 

I should like to see you doing that, John, I really 
should ! Turning a woman out of doors in a snow- 
storm, for instance ; or, maybe you 'd take her up 
and put her in jail, would n't you ? You would 
make a great hand at that ! 

MR. BIRD. 

[in a moderate tone.] 

Of course, it would be a very painful duty. 

MRS. BIRD. 

Duty, John ! don't use that word ! You know it 
is n't a duty — it can't be a duty. If folks want to 
keep their slaves from running away, let 'em treat 
'em well, — that 's my doctrine. If I had slaves (as 
I hope I never shall have), I 'd risk their wanting 
to run away from me, or you either, John. I tell 
you folks don't run away when they are happy ; 
and when they do run, poor creatures ! they suffer 
enough with cold and hunger and fear, without 
everybody turning against them ; and, law or no 
law, I never will, so help me God ! 



SENATOR BIRD, 13 

MR. BIRD. 

Mary! Mary! My dear, let me reason with 
you. 

MRS. BIRD. 

I hate reasoning, John, — especially reasoning on 
such subjects. There 's a way you political folks 
have of coming round and round a plain right 
thing ; and you don't believe in it yourselves when 
it comes to practice. I know you well enough, 
John. You don't believe it 's right any more than 
I do ; and you would n't do it any sooner than I. 

[At this critical juncture, old Cud joe, the black man-of- 
all-work, puts his head in at the door.] 



Missis, would you come into the kitchen ? 

[Our senator, tolerably relieved, looks after his little wife 
with a whimsical mixture of amusement and vexation, and 
seating himself in the arm-chair, begins to read the papers. 
After a moment, his wife's voice is heard at the door, in a 
quick, earnest tone.] 

MRS. BIRD. 

John ! John ! I do wish you 'd come here a mo- 
ment. 

Curtain falls. 



14 SENATOR BIRD. 

Scene II. A kitchen. 

[Mr, Bird lays down his paper and goes into the kitchen, 
and starts, quite amazed at the sight that presents itself : 
A young and slender woman, with garments torn and fro- 
zen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away from the 
cut and bleeding foot, lies back in a deadly swoon upon two 
chairs. There is the impress of the despised race on her 
face, yet none can help feeling its mournful and pathetic 
beauty, while its stony sharpness, its cold, fixed, and deathly 
aspect, strikes a solemn chill over him. He draws his 
breath short, and stands in silence. His wife and their only 
colored domestic, old Aunt Dinah, are busily engaged in 
restorative measures ; while old Cudjoe has got the boy 
(Eliza's son) on his knee, and is busy pulling off his shoes 
and stockings and chafing his little cold feet.] 

Curtain i-ises. 



DINAH. 

[compassionately.] 

Sure, now, if slie ain't a sight to behold! — 'pears 
like 't was the heat that made her faint. She was 
tol'able peart when she cum in, and asked if she 
couldn't warm herself here a spell ; and I was just 
a-askin' her where she cum from, and she fainted 
right down. Never done much hard work, guess, 
by the looks of her hands. 

MRS. BIRD. 

Poor creature ! 

[The woman slowly uncloses her large dark eyes, and looks 
vacantly at Mrs. Bird. Suddenly an expression of agony 
crosses her face and she springs up.] 



SENATOR BIRD. 15 

ELIZA. 

Oh, my Harry ! Have they got him ? 

[The boy at this jumps from Cudjoe's knee, and running 
to her side, puts up his arms.] 

Oh, he 's here ! he 's here I Oh, ma'am ! do pro- 
tect us ! don't let them get him. 

MRS. BIRD. 

[encouragingly.] 

Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman. You 
are safe ; don't be afraid. 

ELIZA. 

God bless you ! 

[The woman covers her face, and sobs ; while the boy, see- 
ing her cry, tries to get into her lap. With many gentle 
and womanly offices, which none know better how to render 
than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman is in time rendered more 
calm. A temporary bed is provided for her on a settle, and 
in a short time she falls into a heavy slumber, with the child, 
who seems no less weary, soundly sleeping on her arm ; for 
the mother resists with nervous anxiety the kindest attempts 
to take him from her, and even in sleep her arm encircles 
him with an unrelaxing clasp.] 

MR. BIRD. 

[aside, to his wife.] 

I wonder who and what she is ? 

MRS. BIRD. 

When she wakes up and feels a little rested, we 
will see. 



16 SENATOR BIRD. 

MR. BIRD. 

[after musing in silence.] 
I say, wife ! 

MRS. BIRD. 

Well, dear? 

MR. BIRD. 

She could n't wear one of your gowns, could she, 
by any letting down, or such matter ? She seems 
to be rather larger than you are. 



[with a smile.] 
We '11 see. 



MRS. BIRD. 



MR. BIRD. 



[after a pause.] 
I say, wife ! 

MRS. BIRD. 

Well ! What now ? 

MR. BIRD. 

Why, there 's that old bombazine cloak that you 
keep on purpose to put over me when I take my 
afternoon's nap ; you might as well give her that ; 
she needs clothes. 

MRS. BIRD. 

Very well, dear ! I '11 see what I can do ! 

Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Bird. Curtain falls. 



SENATOR BIRD. 17 



Scene III. The same. 

[The woman sits upon the settle, looking steadily into 

the fire with a calm, heart-broken expression, very different 

from her former agitated wilduess.] 

Curtain rises on Eliza, the boy, Dinah and Cudjoe. 
Enter Mr. and 3Irs. Bird. 

MRS. BIRD. 

[in gentle tones.] 

Did you want me ? I hope you feel better now, 
poor woman ! 

[A long-drawn, shivering sigh is the only answer ; but 
Eliza lifts her dark eyes and fixes them on Mrs. Bird with 
such a forlorn and imploring expression, that the tears come 
into the little woman's eyes.] 

You need n't be afraid of anything ; we are 
friends here, poor woman! Tell me where you 
came from, and what you want. 

ELIZA. 

I came from Kentucky. 



When? 



MR. BIRD, 



ELIZA, 



To-night. 

MR. BIRD. 

How did 3^ou come ? 



18 SENATOR BIRD. 

ELIZA. 

I crossed on the ice. 

MR. and MRS. BIRD, DINAH, and CUDJOE [together.] 

Crossed on the ice ! 

\ 

ELIZA. 

[slowly.] 

Yes, I did. God helping me, I crossed on the 
ice ; for they were behind me — right behind — and 
there was no other way ! 

CUDJOE. 

Law, missis, the ice is all in broken-up blocks, 
a-swinging and a-tetering up and down in the 
water ! 

ELIZA. 

[wildly.] 

I know it was ; I know it ! but I did it ! I would 
n't have thought I could. I did n't think I should 
get over ; but I did n't care ! I could but die if 
I did n't. The Lord helped me ; nobody knows 
how much the Lord can help 'em till they try. 

MR. BIRD. 

Were you a slave ? 

ELIZA. 

Yes, sir ; I belonged to a man in Kentucky. 



SENATOR BIRD. 19 

MR. BIRD. 

Was lie unkind to you ? 

ELIZA. 

No, sir ; he was a good master. 

MR, BIRD. 

And was your mistress unkind to you ? 

ELIZA. 

No, sir ; no ! My mistress was always good to me. 

MR. BIRD. 

What could induce you to leave a good home, 
then, and run away, and go through such dangers ? 

[The woman looks at Mrs. Bird with a keen, scrutinizing 
glance, and it does not escape her that she is dressed in 
deep mourning.] 

ELIZA. 

[suddenly.] 

Ma'am, have you ever lost a child ? 

[The question is unexpected, and it is a thrust on a new 
wound ; for it is only a month since a darling child of the 
family was laid in the grave. Mr. Bird turns round and 
walks to the window, and Mrs. Bird bursts into tears, but 
recovers her voice.] 

MRS. BIRD. 

Why do you ask that? I have lost a little one. 



!20 SENATOR BIRD. 

F-1.I7.A. 

Then you will feel for mc. I have lost two, one 
afrer another : left them buried there when 1 eame 
away : and I had only this one left. 1 never slept 
a night without him : he was all I had. He was my 
comfort and pride, day and night : and. ma'am, 
they were going to take him away from me, — to 
sell him : sell him down south, ma'am, to go all 
alone, — a baby that had never been away from his 
mother in his life ! I could n't stand it, ma'am. I 
knew I never should be good for anything if they 
did : and when I knew the papers were signed, 
and he was sold, I took him and came off in tlio 
night : and they chased me, — the man that bought 
him and some of Mas'rs folks ; and they were com- 
ing down right behind me, and I heard 'em. I 
jumped right on to the ice ; and how 1 got across 
I don't know : but, lirst I knew a man was hel}ung 
me up the bank. 

[Tlie woman Joes not sob nov weep ; but ovorv one mound 
her is showing -signs of hearty sympathy. The two little 
boTS, after a desperate rummaging in their pockets in search 
of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers know iu:e never 
to be found there, throw themselves into the skii-ts of their 
mother's gown, where they sob and wipe their eyes to their 
hearts' content. Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in her 
pocket-handkerchief, and old Dinali, letting the tears stream 
down her black, honest face.] 

DIXAU. 

Lord, have mercy on us ! 

[Old Cudjoe, rubbing his eyes very hard with his cuflfs, 



SEN AT on I'.lhlK 21 

an/1 making ft Jnoit nwmnmmi vAvlhty of wry fa/>is, rx^^ 
sionally respond* in the »am<; k^ry with gr^at f^;rvf/r.] 

Lorrl, liavo mercy on u.h I 

[Oor mnAifff in a fttatesrnan, ami of eoorse eaanot be ex- 
pected to cry like r/ther rnortala ; and «o he tarM \m back 
to the company and »eemi» partieolarly biwy in clearing bis 
thrr^t anrl wipinj/ his »pf;etacle glaiwe«, occasionally blov- 
ing hia nr/5W5 in a manner that is calcniated to excite »a»- 
picion.] 

MR. BIRD. 

[taming suddenly ronnd np</n the woman.] 

How carri^i you to tell me you had a kind master? 

ELIZA. 

Because he /yy/;^ a kind master. 1 11 say that of 
him, anyway; and my mistress wa» kind; but 
they could n't help them.selves. They were owing 
money, and there was s/nne way, I can't tell how, 
that a man had a hold on them, and they were ob- 
lir^ed to f.;Ive him his will. I listened and heard 
hhn telling mi.HtreHS tFiat, and she Ixjgging and 
plea^ling for me ; and he tohl her he couldn't help 
himself and that the pap;rs were all drawn. And 
then it was 1 took hirn and left my home and came 
away ; I knew 't was no ase of my trying to live 
if they did it, for 't 'pears like this child is all I 
have. 



22 SENATOR BIRD. 

MR. BIRD. 

Have you no husband ? 

ELIZA. 

Yes, but he belongs to another man. His mas- 
ter is real hard to him, and won't let him come to 
see me, hardly ever ; and he 's grown harder and 
harder upon us, and he threatens to sell him down 
south. It' s like I '11 never see Jmn again. 

MRS. BIRD. 

And where do you mean to go, my poor woman ? 

ELIZA. 

[looking up with a simple, confiding air to Mrs. Bird's 
face.] 

To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is 
it very far off, is Canada ? 



[involuntarily.] 
Poor thing ! 



MRS. BIRD. 



ELIZA. 



[earnestly.] 

Is 't a very great way off, think ? 

MRS. BIRD. 

Much farther than you think, poor child ! But 
we will try to think what can be done for you. 
Here, Dinah, make her up a bed in your own room, 



SENATOR BIRD. 23 

close by tlie kitchen, and I '11 think what to do for 
her in the morning. Meanwhile, never fear, poor 
woman. Put your trust in God. He will protect 
you. 

Curtain falls. 



Scene IV. The parlor. 

Curtain rises. 
[Mrs. Bird and her husband have reentered the parlor. 
She sits in her little rocking-chair, swaying thoughtfully 
to and fro. Mr. Bird strides up and down the room grum- 
bling to himself.] 

MR. BIRD. 

Pish ! pshaw ! confounded awkward business ! 

[At length striding up to his wife.] 

I say, wife, she '11 have to get away from here 
this very night. That fellow will be down on the 
scent bright and early to-morrow morning. ^ If 't 
was only the woman, she could lie quiet till it was 
over ; but that little chap can't be kept still by a 
troop of horse and foot, I '11 warrant me. He 'U 
bring it all out, popping his head out of some win- 
dow or door. A pretty kettle of fish it would be 
for me, too, to be caught with them both here, just 
now. No ; they '11 have to be got off to-night. 

MRS. BIRD. 

To-nio-ht ! How is it possible ? Where to ? 



24 SEXATOR BIRD. 



MR. BIRD. 

Well, I know pretty well where to. 

[The senator begins to put on his boots with a reflective 
air ; and stopping when his leg is half in, embraces his 
knee with both hands, and seems to go off in deep med- 
itation ; at last beginning to tug at his bootstraps again. 
After one boot is fairly on, the senator sits with the other 
in his hand, profoundly studying the figure of the carpet.] 

It 's a confounded, awkward, ugly business ; and 
that 's a fact ! It will have to be done, though, for 
aught I see, — hang it all ! 

[and he draws the other boot anxiously on and looks out of 
the window.] 

You see, there 's my old client, Van Trompe, has 
come over from Kentucky, and set all his slaves 
free ; and he has bought a place seven miles up the 
creek, here, back in the woods, where nobody goes, 
unless they go on purpose ; and it 's a place that 
is n't found in a hurry. There she 'd be safe 
enough ; but the plague of the thing is, nobody 
could drive a carriage there to-night but me, 

MRS. BIRD. 

Why not ? Cudjoe is an excellent driver. 

MR. BIRD. 

Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be 
crossed twice, and the second crossing is quite dan- 
gerous, imless one knows it as I do. I have crossed 



SENATOR BIRD. 25 

it a hundred times on horseback, and know exactly 
the turns to take. And so, you see, there 's no help 
for it. Cud joe must put in the horses, as quietly 
as may be, about twelve o'clock, and I '11 take her 
over ; and then, to give color to the matter, he must 
carry me on to the next tavern, to take the stage 
for Columbus, that comes by about three or four, 
and so it will look as if I had the carriage only for 
that. I shall get into business bright and early in 
the morning. But I 'm thinking I shall feel rather 
cheap there, after all that 's been said and done ; 
but hang it, I can't help it ! 

MRS. BIRD. 

[laying her little white hand on his.] 

Your heart is better than your head in this case, 
John. Could I ever have loved you, had I not 
known you better than you know yourself ? 

[Mr. Bird walks off soberly to see about the carriage. 
At the door, however, he stops a moment, and then coming 
back, speaks with some hesitation.] 

MR. BIRD. 

Mary, I don't know how you 'd feel about it, but 
there 's that drawer full of things — of — of — poor 
little Henry's^ 

[So saying, he turns quickly on his heel and shuts the doer 
after him.] 

Exit Mrs, Bird, followed by the two hoys. In a minute or ttvo, she returns 
carrying a small bundle of clothing. 



26 SENATOR BIRD. 

TOM. 

[gently touching her arm.] 

Mamma, are you going to give away those things ? 

MRS. BIRD. 

[softly and earnestly.] 

My dear boys, if our dear loving little Henry 
looks down from heaven, he would be glad to have 
us do this. I could not find it in my heart to give 
them away to any common person — to anybody 
that was happy ; but I give them to a mother more 
heart-broken and sorrowful than I am, and I hope 
God will send His blessings with them. 

[Mrs. Bird has also brought out a plain, serviceable dress 
or two, and she sits down busily to her work-table, and with 
needle, scissors, and thimble at hand, quietly commences the 
" letting-down " process, which her husband had recom- 
mended, and continues busily at it, till the old clock strikes 
twelve, and she hears the low rattling of wheels at the door.] 

MR. BIRD. 

[coming in with his overcoat in his hand.] 

Mary, you must wake her up now ; we must be 
off. 

Curtain falls. 



Scene V. Another kitchen. 

[John van Trompe is a great, tall, bristling Orson of a 
fellow, full six feet and soiue inches in his stockings, and 
arrayed in a red flannel hunting-shirt. A very heavy mat of 
sandy hair, in a decidedly tousled condition, and a beard of 



SENATOR BIRD. 27 

some days' growth, give the worthy man an appearance, to say 
the least, not particularly prepossessing-. He stands for a few 
minutes holding the candle aloft, and blinking on our travel- 
lers with a dismal and mystified expression that is truly 
ludicrous. It costs some effort of our senator to induce him 
to comprehend the case fully.] 

Curtain rises on 3Ir. Bird and Van Trompe. 
MR. BIRD. 

Are you tlie man that will shelter a poor woman 
and child from slave-catchers ? 

VAN TROMPE. 

[with considerable emphasis.] • 
I rather think I am, 

MR. BIRD. 

I thought so. 

VAN TROMPE. 

[stretching his tall muscular form upward.] 

If there 's anybody comes, why, here I am ready 
for him ; and I 've got seven sons, each six foot 
high, and they 11 be ready for 'em. Give our re- 
spects to 'em, tell 'em it 's no matter how soon they 
call, — make no kinder difference to us. 
[running his fingers through the shock of hair that thatches 
his head, and bursting out into a great laugh.] 

Exit Mr. Bird, returning with Eliza and her child. 
[Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza drags herself in, with 
her child lying in a heavy sleep on her arm. The rough man 
holds a candle to her face, and utters a kind of compassionate 
grunt,] 



28 SENATOR BIRD. 

VAN TROMPE to ELIZA. 

Now, I say, gal, j'^ou need n't be a bit afeard, let 
who will come here ; I 'm up to all that sort o' thing, 
[pointing to two or three goodly rifles on the wall.] 
and most people that know me know that 't would 
n't be healthy to try to get anybody out o' my house 
when I 'm agin it. So noio you jist go to sleep 
now, as quiet as if yer mother was a-rockin' you. 
[taking down a candle and lighting it, he gives it to 
Eliza.] 

This way, my gal. 

Exit Van Trompe, followed by Eliza. Eeenter Va7i Trompe. 
VAN TROMPE. . 

Poor crittur, hunted down now like a deer; 
hunted down jest for havin' natural feelins and 
doin' what no kind o' mother could help a-doin' ! 
I tell ye what, these yer things make me come the 
nighest to swearin', now, o' most anything. 

[wiping his eyes with the back of a great freckled, yellow 
hand.] 

I tell yer what, stranger, it was years and years be- 
fore I'd jine the church, 'cause the ministers round 
in our parts used to preach that the Bible went in 
for these 'ere cuttings-up, and I could n't be up to 
'em with their Greek and Hebrew, and so I took 
agin 'em, Bible and all. I never jined the church 
till I found a minister that was up to 'em all in 
Greek and all that, and he said right the contrary ; 



SENATOR BIRD. 29 

and then I took right hold, and jined the church ; I 
did, now, fact. 

[all this time uncorking some very frisky bottled cider, which 
at this juncture he presents.] 

You had better jest put up here, now, till day- 
light, and I '11 call up the old woman, and have a 
bed got ready for you in no time. 

MR. BIRD. 

Thank you, my good friend ; I must be along, to 
take the night stage for Columbus. 

[At this point, the senator puts into Van Trompe's hand a 
ten-dollar bill.] 

It 's for her. 

VAN TROMPE. 

Ay, ay. 

[They shake hands and part.] 

Curtain falls. 



THE WAY SHE "WAS RAISED." 



CHARACTERS. 

Miss Asphyxia Smith. 

Miss Mehitable Rossiter. 

Mrs. Badger. 

Miss Lois Badger, daughter to Mrs. Badger. 

Mrs. Smith, sister-in-law to Miss Asphyxia. 

Tina Percival, a little girl. 

COSTUMES. 

Plainly made stuff skirts and bodices, with aprons and close- 
fitting caps for Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Badger. Miss Mehitable 
and Miss Asphyxia must wear large old-fashioned bonnets and 
shawls. Miss Lois, stuff skirt, cotton short gown and apron. 
Tina, a plain, short dress and white pinafore and bonnet. 

ANALYSIS OF SCENES: PROPERTIES. 

Scene I. A kitchen with exit. Miss Asphyxia takes Tina to 
"raise." 

Properties. Kitchen furniture. A doughnut. 

Scene II. Room with exit. Miss Asphyxia gives Tina up to 
Miss Mehitable. 

Properties. Chairs, table, etc. Knitting-work and needles. 
A small bundle of homespun clothing. 



THE WAY SHE ''WAS RAISED." 31 

Scene I. A kitchen. 

Curtain rises on 3Tiss Asphyxia, 3Irs. Smith, and Tina. 
MISS ASPHYXIA. 

There won't be no great profit in this 'ere, these 
ten year. 

[The object denominated "this 'ere" is a golden-haired 
child of seven years. Miss Asphyxia Smith is at this mo- 
ment turning the child round, and examining her through a 
pair of large horn spectacles, with a view to " taking her to 
raise" as she phrases it. . . . Miss Asphyxia is tall and 
spare. Nature had made her, as she often remarked of her- 
self, entirely for use. She had allowed for her muscles no 
cushioned repose of fat, no redundant smoothness of outline. 
There is nothing to her but good, strong, solid bone, and 
tough, wiry, well-strung muscle. She is past fifty, and her 
hair is already well streaked with gray. . . . She brushes 
up a handful of Tina's clustering curls in her large, bony 
hand, saying, with a sniff : ] 

These '11 have to come right off to begin with ; 
gracious me, what a tangle ! 

TINA. 

Mother always brushed them out every day. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

And who do you suppose is going to spend an 
hour every day brushing your hair, Miss Pert? 
That ain't what I take ye for, I tell you. You 've 
got to learn to work for your living ; and you ought 
to be thankful if I 'm willing to show you how. 

[The little girl does not appear particularly thankful. She 



32 I'HE WAY SHE " WAS RAISED." 

bends her soft, pencilled eyebrows in a dark frown, and her 
great hazel eyes have gathered in them a cloud of sullen 
gloom. Miss Asphyxia does not mind her frowning, — per- 
haps does not notice it. She had it settled in her mind, as a 
first principle, that children never liked anything that was 
good for them, and that, of course, if she took a child, it 
would have to be made to come to her by forcible proceed- 
ings promptly instituted. So she sets her little subject before 
her by seizing her by her two shoulders, and squaring her 
round, and looking in her face, and opens direct conversa- 
tion with her in the following succinct manner.] 

What 's your name ? 

[Then follows a resolved and gloomy silence, as the large 
bright eyes survey, with a sort of defiant glance, the in- 
quisitor.] 

Don't you hear ? 
[giving her a shake.] 

MKS. SMITH. 

[taking the child's hand.] 

Don't be so ha'sh with her ! Say, my little dear, 
tell Miss Asphyxia your name ! 

TINA. 

[turning towards the old woman, disdaining to answer the 
other party in the conversation.] 

Eglantine Percival. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Wh-a-t I If there ain't the beaten'est name ever 
I heard. Well, I tell you, /ain't got time to fix 
my mouth to say all that 'ere every time I want ye, 
now I tell ye ! 



THE WAY SHE " WAS RAISED:' 33 

TINA. 

Mother and Harry called me Tina. 



MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Teny ! Well, I should think so ! That showed 
she 'd got a grain o' sense left, anyhow. She 's 
tol'able strong and well-limbed for her age, 
[feeling of the child's arms and limbs ;] 

her flesh is solid. I think she '11 make a strong: 
woman, only put her to work early and keep her at 
it. I could rub out clothes at the wash-tub afore I 
was at her age. 



MRS. SMITH. 



Oh, she can do considerable many little chores. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Yes, there can a good deal be got out of a child 
if you keep at 'em, hold 'em in tight, and never let 
'em have their head a minute ; push right hard on 
behind 'em, and you get considerable. That 's the 
way / was raised. 

TINA. 

But I want to play, 
[bursting out in a sobbing storm of mingled fear and grief.] 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Want to play, do you? Well, you must get 
over that. Don't you know that that 's as bad as 



34 THE WAY SHE " WAS RAISED:' 

stealing ? You have n't got any money, and if you 
eat folks's bread and butter, you've got to work to 
pay for it ; and if folks buy your clothes, you 've got 
to work to pay for them. 

TINA. 

But I 've got some clothes of my own. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Well, so you have ; but there ain't no sort of wear 
in 'em. 

[turning to Mrs. Smith.] 

Them two dresses o' hern might answer for Sun- 
days and sich, but I '11 have to make her up a regu- 
lar linsey working-dress this fall, and check aprons ; 
and she must set right about knitting every minute 
she is n't doing anything else. Did you ever learn 
how to knit ? 

TINA. 

No. 

Or to sew ? 

Yes ; mother taught me to sew. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

No ! Yes ! Hain't you learned manners ? Do 
you say yes and no to people ? 



MISS ASPHYXIA. 



TINA. 



THE WAY SHE " WAS RAISED." 35 

[The child stands a moment, swelling with suppressed feel- 
ing, and at last opens her great eyes full on Miss Asphyxia.] 

TINA. 

I don't like you. You ain't pretty, and I won't 
go with you. 

MRS. SMITH. 

Oh now ! little girls must n't talk so ; that 's 
naughty. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

[with a short, grim laugh.] 

Don't like me ? — ain't I pretty ? Maybe I 
ain't ; but I know what I 'm about, and you 'd as 
good 's know it first as last. I 'm going to take ye 
right out with me in the waggin, and you 'd best 
not have none of your cuttins up. I keep a stick 
at home for naughty girls. Why, where do you 
suppose you 're going to get your livin' if I don't 
take you ? 

TINA. 

[sobbing.] 

I want to live with Harry. Where is Harry ? 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Harry 's to work, — and there 's where he 's got 
to be. He 's got to work with the men in the 
fields, and you 've got to come home and work with 
me. 



36 THE WAY SHE " WAS RAISED." 

TINA. 

[in a piteous tone.] 

I want to stay with Harry. Harry takes care 
of me. 

Exit Mrs. Smith, to return immediately with a doughnut. 
MRS. SMITH. 

There now, eat that, and mebbe, if you 're good, 
Miss Asphyxia will bring you down here sometime. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

laws, Polly, you allers was a fool ! It 's all 
for the child's good, and what 's the use of f ussin' 
on her up ? She '11 come to it when she knows 
she 's got to. 'T ain't no more than I was put to 
at her age, only the child 's been fooled with and 
babied. 

[The little one refuses the doughnut, and seems to gather 
herself up in silent gloom.] 

Come now, don't stand sulking ; let me put your 
bonnet on. 
[in a brisk metallic voice.] 

1 can't be losing the best part of my day with 
this nonsense ! 

MRS. SMITH. 

Be a good girl, now ; be a good girl, and do just 
as she tells you to. 



THE WAY SHE " WAS RAISED." 37 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

I '11 see to that I 

Exit Miss Asphyxia, holding Tina by the hand. 
Curtain falls. 

Scene II. Room in Mrs. Badger^s house. 

[Miss Mehitable is making a quiet call at my grandmoth- 
er's, and the party, consisting of grandmother (Mrs. Badger), 
Aunt Lois, and herself, are peacefully rattling their knit- 
ting-needles, while Tina is playing by the riverside, when the 
child's senses are suddenly paralyzed by the sight of Miss 
Asphyxia driving with a strong arm over the bridge.] 

Curtain rises on Mrs. Badger, Aunt Lois, and Miss 3fehiiable. 

[Tina runs in at the back door, perfectly pale with fright, 
and seizes hold imploringly of Miss Mehitable's gown.] 

Enter Tina. 



Oh, she 's commg ! she 's coming after me. Don't 
let her get me ! 

MRS. BADGER. 

What 's the matter now ? What ails the child ? 
[Miss Mehitable lifts her in her lap, and the child clings 
to her, reiterating:] 

TINA. 

Don't let her have me ! She 's dreadful ! Don't ! 



38 THE WAY SHE ''WAS RAISED." 

AUNT LOIS, 
[who has tripped to the window.] 

As true as you live, mother, there 's Miss As- 
phyxia Smith hitching her horse at our picket 
fence ! 

MRS. BADGER. 

[squaring her shoulders and setting herself in fine martial 
order.] 

She is ? Well, let her come in ; she 's welcome, 
I 'm sure. I 'cl like to talk to that woman ! It 's 
a free country, and everybody 's got to speak their 
minds. 

[and my grandmother rattles her needles with great energy.] 
Enter Miss Asphyxia. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Good day, Mis' Badger ! How d' ye do, Miss 
Rossiter ? Good day. Miss Lois ! 

[She is arrayed in her best Sunday clothes, and makes the 
neighborly salutations with an air of grim composure.] 

MISS MEHITABLE and AUNT LOIS. 

Good day, Miss Smith ! 

MRS. BADGER. 

Glad to see you, Miss Asphyxia. Pray sit 
down ! 

Miss Asphyxia seats herself, 
[There is silence and a sense of something brooding in 
the air, as there often is before the outburst of a storm. 
Finally, Miss Asphyxia opens the trenches.] 



THE WAY SHE ''WAS RAISED:' 39 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

I come over, Mis' Badger, to see about a gal o' 
mine that has run away. 

[Here her eye rests severely on Tiua.] 

MRS. BADGER. 

[briskly.] 

Kun away! and good reason she should run 
away; all I wonder at is that you have the face to 
come to a Christian family after her, — that 's all. 
Well, she is provided for, and you 've no call to be 
inquiring anything about her. So I advise you to 
go home and attend to your own affairs, and leave 
children to folks that know how to manage them 
better than you do. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

[in towering wrath.] 

I expected this, Mis' Badger, but I 'd have you 
to know that I ain't a person that 's going to take 
sa'ace from no one. No deacon nor deacon's wife 
nor perfessor of religion 's agoin' to turn up their 
noses at me ! I can hold up my head with any on 
'em, and I think your religion might teach you bet- 
ter than takin' up stories agin your neighbors as a 
little, lyin', artful hussy '11 tell. 

[Here there is a severe glance at Miss Tina, who quails 
before it and clings to Miss Mehitable's gown.] 

Yes indeed, you may hide your head, but you 
ean't git away from the truth ; not when I 'm round 



40 THE WAY SHE '^WAS RAISED:' 

to bring you out. Yes, Mis' Badger, I defy her to 
say I hain't done well by her, if she says the truth, 
for I say it now, this blessed minute, and would say 
it on my dyin'-bed, and you can ask Sol ef that 'ere 
child hain't had everything pervided for her that a 
child could want, — a good clean bed and plenty o' 
bedclothes, and good whole clothes to wear, and lots 
o' good victuals every day ; an' me a-teachin' and a- 
trainin' on her, enough to wear the very life out o' 
me, — for I always hated young uns, and this 'ere 's 
a perfect little limb as I ever did see. Why what 
did she think I was agoin' to do for her ? I did n't 
make a lady on her ; to be sure I did n't. I was 
a-fetchin' her up to work for her livin' as I was 
fetched up. I had n't nothin' more 'n she ; an' 
just look at me now ; there ain't many folks can 
turn off as much work in a day as I can, though I 
say it that should n't. And I 've got as pretty a 
piece of property, and as well seen to, as most any 
round ; and all I 've got — house and lands — is 
my own arnins, honest, — so there ! 

[Here Miss Asphyxia elevates her nose and sniffs over 
my grandmother's cap-border in a very contemptuous man- 
ner, and the cap-border bristles defiantly but undismayed 
back again.] 

Come now. Mis' Badger, have it out ; I ain't 
afraid of you ! I 'd just like to have you tell me 
what I could ha' done more nor better for this 
child. 



THE WAY SHE ''WAS RAISED." 41 

MRS. BADGER. 

Done ! 
[with a pop like a roasted chestnut bursting out of the fire.] 

Why you 've done what you 'd no business to. 
You 'd no business to take a child at all ; you 
have n't got a grain of motherliness in you. Why, 
look at natur', that might teach you that more than 
meat and drink and clothes is wanted for a child. 
Hens brood their chickens, and keep 'em warm 
under their wings, and cows lick their calves and 
cosset 'em, and it 's a mean shame that folks will 
take 'em away from them. 'T ain't just feedin' and 
clothin' that 's all ; it 's hroodin that young cree- 
turs wants ; and you hain't got a bit of broodin' 
in you ; your heart 's as hard as the nether mill- 
stone. Sovereign grace may soften it some day, 
but nothin' else can. You 're 2b poor, old, hard, 
worldly woman. Miss Asphyxia Smith ; that 's what 
you are! If Divine grace could have broken in 
upon you, and given you a heart to love the child, 
you might have brought her up, 'cause you are a 
smart woman, and an honest one ; that nobody 
denies. 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

[in conciliatory tones.] 

'My good Miss Smith, by your own account you 
must have had a great deal of trouble with this 
child. Now I propose for the future to relieve you 
of it altogether. I do not think you would ever 



42 THE WAY SHE "WAS RAISED." 

succeed in making as efficient a person as yourself 
of her. I don't doubt you conscientiously intended 
to do your duty by her, and I beg you to believe 
that you need have no further trouble with her. 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Goodness gracious knows, the child ain't much 
to fight over, — she was nothin' but a plague ; and 
I 'd rather have done all she did any day, than to 
'a' had her round under my feet. I hate young uns, 
anyway. 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

Then why, my good woman, do you object to 
parting with her ? 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Who said I did object? I don't care nothin' 
about parting with her ; all is, when I begin a thing 
I like to go through with it. 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

But if it is n't worth while going through with, 
it 's as well to leave it, is it not ? 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

And I 'd got her clothes made, — not that they 're 
worth so very much, but then they 're worth just 
what they are worth, anyway. 

Exit Tina to reenter immediately. 



THE WAY SHE ''WAS RAISED." 43 

[Here Tina made a sudden impulsive dart from Miss Me- 
hitable's lap and ran out of the back door, and over to her 
new home, and up into the closet of the chamber, where was 
hanging the new suit of homespun in which Miss Asphyxia 
had arrayed her. She took it down and rolled the articles 
all together in a tight bundle, which she secured with a string, 
and, before the party in the kitchen had ceased wondering at 
her flight, suddenly reappeared, with flushed cheeks and di- 
lated eyes, and tossed the bundle into Miss Asphyxia's lap. ] 



There 's every bit you ever gave me ; I don't 
want to keep a single thing ! 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

[reprovingly.] 

My dear, is that a proper way to speak ? 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

[rising.] 

Well, it 's no use talking. If folks think they 're 
able to bring up a beggar child like a lady, it 's 
their lookout and not mine. I was n't aware 
[she added with severe irony.] 

that Parson Eossiter left so much of an estate that 
you could afford to bring up other folks's children 
in silks and satins. 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

[good-naturedly.] 

Our estate is n't much, but we shall make the 
best of it. 



44 THE WAY SHE "WAS RAISED," 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Well now, you just mark my words, Miss Eos- 
siter, that 'ere child will never grow up a smart 
woman with your bringin' up ; she '11 jest run right 
over you and you '11 let her have her head in ever}^- 
thing. I see jest how 't '11 be ; I don't want nobody 
to tell me. 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

I dare say you are quite right, Miss Smith; I 
have n't the slightest opinion of my own powers in 
that line ; but she may be happy with me, for all 
that. 

Miss ASPHYXIA. 

[with an odd intonation, as if repeating a sound of some- 
thing imperfectly comprehended.] 

Happy? Oh, well, if folks is goin' to begin to 
talk about that, I hain't got time ; it don't seem to 
me, that that 's what this 'ere world 's for. 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

What is it for, then ? 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

Meant for ? AVhy, for hard work, I s'pose ; 
that 's all I ever found it for. Talk about cod- 
dling ! it 's little we get o' that in this world, dear 
knows. You must take things right off when 
they 're goin'. Ef you don't, so much the worse 



TEE WAY SHE ^'WAS RAISED." 45 

for you ; they won't wait for you. Lose an hour in 
the morning-, and you may chase it till ye drop 
down, you '11 never catch it ! That 's the way 
things goes, and I should like to know who 's agoing 
to stop to quiddle with young uns ? 'T ain't me, 
that 's certain. So as there 's no more to be made 
by this 'ere talk, I may as well be goin'. You 're 
welcome to the young un, ef you say so. I jest 
wanted you to know that what 1 'd begun I 'd 'a' 
gone through with, ef you had n't stepped in ; and 
1 did n't want no reflections on my good name, 
neither, for 1 had my ideas of what 's right and can 
have 'em yet, I s'pose, if Mis' Badger does think 
I 've got a heart of stone ! 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

Well, well. Miss Smith, I respect your motives, 
and would be happy to see you any time you will 
call, and I 'm in hopes to teach this little girl to 
treat you properly, 
[taking the child's hand.] 

MISS ASPHYXIA. 

[with a short, hard laugh.] 

Likely story. She '11 get ahead o' you, you '11 
see that ; but I don't hold malice, so good morn- 
ing. 

[and Miss Asphyxia suddenly and promptly departs and is 
soon seen driving away at a violent pace.] 

Hxii Miss Asphyxia. 



46 THE WAY SHE ''WAS RAISED.*' 

MISS MEHITABLE. 

Upon my word, that woman is n't so bad now ! 

TINA. 

Oh, I 'm so glad you did n't let her have me ! 

Curtain falls. 



DINAH'S KITCHEN. 



CHARACTERS. 

Augustine St. Clare, the master of the house. 

Miss Ophelia St. Clare (cousin to St. Clare) — acting 

housekeeper. 
Dinah, a negress, and the cook. 
Sam, Jake (negro boys), and other slaves. 



COSTUMES. 

St. Clare must wear a suit of clothes suitable for morning 
wear in a warm climate. 

Miss Ophelia. A plain, full-skirted dress, with large service- 
able apron. Hair parted and arranged simply. 

Dinah. A bright, printed cotton dress, with apron ; both dress 
and apron soiled and untidy. 

Sam, Jake, and the other slaves, carelessly dressed in cool ma- 
terials. 

ANALYSIS OF SCENES: PROPERTIES. 

Scene I. Kitchen in St. Clare's house with exit (and fire- 
place if possible). Miss Ophelia puts the kitchen in order. 

Properties. Chairs, tables, chest of drawers. Potatoes, 
fowls, and peas, if possible. Pudding-stick. Table-cloth badly 
stained, — nutmeg-grater ; saucer of pomade ; — table-napkins ; 
onions in piece of flannel, — papers of sweet herbs. (The rest 
of the articles described as being found in drawer in Scene I. are 
not necessary but will be appropriate.) Sugar-bowl, plates, basins, 



48 DINAH'S KITCHEN. 

towels, etc. ; pipe of tobacco. In this scene, everything must be 
disordered and out of place. 

Scene II. Parlor in St. Clare's house. Conversation between 
St, Clare and Miss Ophelia. 

Properties. Carpet, curtains, pictures, ornaments, and furni- 
ture suitable for parlor, and bell. 



Scene I. The kitchen. 

[It is now the season of incipient preparation for dinner. 
Dinah, who requires large intervals of reflection and repose, 
and is studious of ease in all her arrangements, is seated 
on the kitchen-floor, smoking a short, stumpy pipe, to Avhich 
she is much addicted. Seated round her are various mem- 
bers of that rising race with which a Southern household 
abounds, engaged in shelling peas, peeling potatoes, picking 
pin-feathers out of fowls, and other preparatory arrange- 
ments, — Dinah every once in a while interrupting her med- 
itations to give a poke, or a rap on the head, to some of the 
young operators, with the pudding-stick that lies by her side. 

The kitchen is a large, brick - floored apartment, with a 
great old-fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of 
it. AVhen St. Clare had first returned from the Korth, im- 
pressed with the system and order of his uncle's kitchen 
arrangements, he had largely provided his own with an array 
of cupboards, drawers, and various apparatus, under the san- 
guine illusion that it would be of any possible assistance to 
Dinah in her arrangements. . . . Her kitchen generally 
looks as if it had been arranged by a hurricane blowing 
through it, and she has about as many places for each cook- 
ing utensil as there are days in the year.] 

Curtain rises on Dinah and her Assistants. 
Enter Miss Ophelia. 

[When IVIiss Ophelia enters the kitchen, on her reforma- 



DINAH'S KITCHEN. 49 

tory tour through the establishment, Dinah does not rise but 
smokes on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements 
obliquely out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent 
only on the operations around her. Miss Ophelia commences 
opening a set of drawers.] 

MISS OPHELIA. 

What is this drawer for, Dinah ? 



It 's handy for most anything, missis. 

[So it appears to be. From the variety it contains Miss 
Ophelia pulls out first a fine damask table - cloth stained 
vsrith blood, having evidently been used to envelop some raw 
meat.] 

MISS OPHELIA. 

What 's this, Dinah ? You don't wrap up meat 
in your mistress's best table-cloths ? 

DINAH. 

O Lor, missis, no ; the towels was all a-missin', 
— so I jest did it. I laid out to wash that 'ar, — 
that 's why I put it thar. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

[to herself.] 

Shiftless ! 
[Proceeding to tumble over the drawei*, she finds a nutmeg- 
grater and two or three nutmegs, a small Methodist hymn- 
book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn 
and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few 
crackers, one or two gilded china saucers with some pomade 



60 DIXAirS KITCHEN. 

in them, one or two thin old shoes, a piece of flannel care- 
fully pinned up, inclosing some small white onions, several 
damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some twine 
and darning-needles, and several broken papers from which 
sundry sweet herbs are sifting into the drawer,] 

'Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah? 

[with the air of one who prays for patience.] 

DINAH. 

Most anywhar, missis ; there 's some in that 
cracked teacup, up there, and there 's some over 
in that ar cupboard. 

MIS9 OPHELIA. 

[holding them up.] 

Here are some in the grater. 

DINAH. 

Laws, yes ; I put 'em thar this morning. I likes 
to keep my things handy. You, Jake ! what are 
you stopping for ? You '11 cotch it ! Be still, 
thar! 

[with a dive of her stick at the criminal.] 

MISS OPHELIA. 

[holding up the saucer of pomade.] 

What's this? 

DINAH. 

Laws, it 's my har-grease. I put it thar to have 
it handy. 



DINAH'S KITCHEN. 61 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Do you use your mistress's best saucers for that ? 

DIXAH. 

Law, it was 'cause I was driv, and in sich a 
hurry ; I was gwine to change it this very day. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Here are two damask table-napkins. 

DINAH. 

Them table-napkins I put thar, to get 'em washed 
out some day. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Don't you have some place here on purpose for 
things to be washed? 

DLN'-IH. 

WeU, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, 
for dat ; but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my 
things on it some days, and then it ain't handy a- 
liftin' up the lid. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

AVhy don't you mix your biscuits ou the pastry 
table there ? 

DINAH. 

Laws, missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and 
one thinc^ and another, der ain't no room, nowavs — 



52 DINAirS KITCHEN, 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But you should loash 3 our dishes, and clear them 
away. 

DINAH. 

[in a high key, as her wrath begins to rise over her habitual 
respect of manner.] 

Wash my dishes ? What does ladies know 'bout 
work, I want to know ? When 'd Mas'r ever get 
his dinner if I was to spend all my time a-washin' 
and a-puttin' up dishes ? Miss Marie never telled 
me so, nohow. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Well, here are these onions. 

DINAH. 

Laws, yes ! thar is whar I put 'em, now. I 
could n't 'member. Them 's particular onions I was 
a-savin' for dis yer very stew. I *d forgot they was 
in dat ar old flannel. 

[Miss Ophelia hf ts out the sifting papers of sweet herbs.] 
I wish missis would n't touch dem ar. I likes to 
keep my things where I knows whar to go to 'em. 
[rather decidedly.] 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But you don't want these holes in the papers. 

DINAH. 

Them 's handy for sif tin' on 't out. 



DINAH'S KITCHEN. 63 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But you see it spills all over the drawer. 

DINAH. 

Laws, yes ! if missis will go a-tumblin' things all 
up so, it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way. 
[coming uneasily to the drawers.] 

If missis will only go upstars till my clarin'-up 
time comes, I have every thing right ; but I can't 
do nothin' when ladies is round a-henderin'. You 
Sam, don't you touch dat ar sugar-bowl ! I '11 crack 
ye over if ye don't mind. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

I 'm going through the kitchen, and going to put 
everything in order, 07ice^ Dinah, and then I '11 ex- 
pect you to keep it so. 

DINAH. 

Lor, now ! Miss Phelia ; dat ar ain't no way for 
ladies to do. I never did see ladies doin' no sich ; 
my old missis nor Miss Marie never did, and I 
don't see no kinder need on 't. 

[and Dinah stalks indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia 
piles and sorts dishes, empties dozens of scattering sugar- 
bowls into one receptacle, sorts napkins, table-cloths, and 
towels for washing ; washing, wiping, and arranging with her 
own hands, and with a speed and alacrity that perfectly 
amazes Dinah.] 



64 DINAH'S KITCHEN. 

DINAH. 

[to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing distance.] 

Lor, now ! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies 
do, dey ain't ladies nohow. I lias things as straight 
as anybody, when my clarin'-up time comes, but I 
don't want ladies round a-henderin' and getting my 
things all where I can't find 'em. 

Curtain falls. 

Scene II. A parlor. 

[Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every 
department of the house to a systematic pattern ; but her 
labors in all departments that depended on the co-operation 
of servants were like those of Sisyphus or the Danaides. In 
despair, she one day appeals to St. Clare.] 

Curtain rises on St. Clare and 3Iiss Ophelia. 
MISS OPHELIA. 

There is no such thing as getting anything like 
system in this family ! 

ST. CLARE. 

To be sure there is n't. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Such shiftless management, such waste, such con- 
fusion, I never saw ! 

ST. CLARE. 

I dare say you did n't. 



DINAH'S KITCHEN. 55 

MISS OPHELIA. 

You would not take it so coolly if you were house- 
keeper. 

ST. CLARE. 

My dear cousin, you may as well understand once 
for all, that we masters are divided into two classes, 
oppressors and oppressed. We who are good-na- 
tured and hate severity make up our minds to a 
good deal of inconvenience. If we will keep a 
shambling, loose, untaught set in the community 
for our convenience, why, we must take the conse- 
quence. Some rare cases I have seen of persons 
who, by a peculiar tact, can produce order and 
system without severity ; but I 'm not one of them, 

— and so I made up my mind long ago to let things 
go just as they do. I will not have the poor crea- 
tures thrashed and cut to pieces, and they know it, 

— and, of course, they know the staff is in their 
own hands. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But to have no time, no place, no order, — all 
going on in this shiftless way ! 

ST. CLARE. 

My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North 
Pole set an extravagant value on time ! What on 
earth is the use of time to a fellow who has twice 
as much of it as he knows what to do with ? As to 



66 DINAH'S KITCHEN. 

order and system, where there is nothing to be done 
but to lounge on the sofa and read, an hour sooner 
or later in breakfast or dinner is n't of much ac- 
count. Now, there 's Dinah gets you a capital din- 
ner, — soup, ragout, roast fowl, dessert, ice-creams, 
and all, — and she creates it all out of chaos and 
old nio-ht down there in that kitchen. I think it 
really sublime the way she manages. But, Heaven 
bless us ! if we are to go down there and view all 
the smoking and squatting about, and hurry-scurry- 
ation of the preparatory process, we should never 
eat more ! My good cousin, absolve yourself from 
that ! It 's more than a penance, and does no more 
good. You '11 only lose your own temper, and 
utterly confound Dinah. Let her go her own way. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But, Augustine, you don't know how I found 
things. 

ST. CLARE. 

Don't I ? Don't? I know that the rolling-pin is 
under her bed, and the nutmeg-grater in her pocket 
with her tobacco, — that there are sixty-five differ- 
ent sugar-bowls, one in every hole in the house, — 
that she washes dishes with a dinner-napkin one 
day, and with a fragment of an old petticoat the 
next? But the upshot is, she gets up glorious 
dinners, makes superb coffee ; and you must judge 
her as warriors and statesmen are judged — by her 
success. 



DINAH'S KITCHEN. 57 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But the waste, — the expense ! 

ST, CLARE. 

Oh, well ! Lock everything you can, and keep 
the key. Give out by driblets, and never inquire 
for odds and ends, — it isn't best. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

That troubles me, Augustine. I can't help feel- 
ing as if these servants were not strictly honest. 
Are you sure they can be relied on ? 

[St. Clare laughs immoderately at the grave and anxious 
face with which Miss Ophelia propounds the question.] 

ST. CLARE. 

Oh, cousin, that 's too good, — honest ! — as if 
that 's a thing to be expected ! Honest ! — why, of 
course they are n't. Why should they be ? What 
upon earth is to make them so ? 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Why don't you instruct ? 

ST. CLARE. 

Instruct ! Oh, fiddlesticks ! What instructing 
do you think I should do ? I look like it ! As to 
Marie, she has spirit enough, to be sure, to kill off 
a whole plantation, if I 'd let her manage ; but she 
would n't get the cheatery out of them. 



68 DINAH'S KITCHEN. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Are there no honest ones ? 

ST. CLARE. 

Well, now and then one, whom Nature makes so 
impracticably simple, truthful, and faithful, that the 
worst possible influence can't destroy it. But for 
my part, I don't see how they caii be honest. Such 
a fellow, as Tom here is, is a moral miracle. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

And what becomes of their souls ? 

ST. CLARE. 

That is n't my affair as I know of ; I am only 
dealing in facts of the present life. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

This is perfectly horrible ! You ought to be 
ashamed of yourselves. 

ST. CLARE. 

I don't know as I am. We are in pretty good 
company for all that, as people in the broad road 
generally are. Look at the high and low, all the 
world over, and it's the same story — the lower 
class used up body, soul, and spirit, for the good of 
the upper. (^Bell r'mgs.) But there's the bell, so, 
cousin, come out to dinner. 

[Emtni bcth. 
Curtain falls. 



WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 



CHARACTERS. 

Mary Scudder, who is engaged to Dr. Hopkins, the minister 
of Newport. 
Cerinthy Ann Twitchel. 
Mrs. Twitchel, mother to Cerinthy. 
Mrs. Jones. 
Othei^ ladies and girls. 

COSTUMES. 

Skirts and "short-gowns" and aprons for all. Caps for the 
elder ladies. In Scene II. Cerinthy must wear an old-fashioned 
straw bonnet. 

ANALYSIS OF SCENES: PROPERTIES. 

Scene I. An old-fashioned parlor with exit. A " quilting- 
hee " for Mary Scudder's wedding-qnilt. 

Properties. Mats, simple furniture, and ornaments. A quilt 
on a frame, needles, scissors, reels of tliread, etc. 

Scene II. Same as in Scene I. Cerinthy asks Mary's advice 
about marrying a minister. 

Properties. Same as in Scene I., omitting the quilt and 
frame. Also, a piece of sewing, and several damask table-nap- 
kins. 

Scene I. Parlor in Mrs. Scudder^s house. 

[By two o'clock a goodly company begins to assemble. The 
quilt-pattern is gloriously drawn in oak-leaves, done in in- 



60 WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 

digo ; and soon all the company, young and old, are passing 
busy fingers over it, and conversation goes on briskly.] 

Curtain rises. 

CERINTHY ANN. 

I never can see into it, how any girl can marry a 
minister ! 

MRS. TWITCHEL. 

Oh, Cerinthy Ann ! how can you go on so ? 

CERINTHY ANN. 

It 's a fact ! Now other men let you have some 
peace, — but a minister is always round under your 
feet. 

MRS. JONES. 

So you think, the less you see of a husband the 
better ? 

CERINTHY ANN. 

[giving a decided snip to her thread with her scissors.] 

Just my views. I like the Nantueketers, that go 
off on four-years' voyages and leave their wives a 
clear field. If ever I get married, I 'm going to 
have one of those fellows. 

MRS. TWITCHEL. 

You 'd better take care, Cerinthy Ann ; they say 
that " those who sing before breakfast wiU cry be- 
fore supper." Girls talk about getting married, 
[relapsing into a gentle didactic melancholy.] 
without realizing its awful responsibilities. 



WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 61 

CERINTHY ANN. 

Oh, as to that, I 've been practising on my pud- 
ding now these six years, and I should n't be afraid 
to throw one up chimney with any girl. 

[All laugh. 
[This speech was founded on a tradition, current in those 
times, that no young lady was fit to be married till she could 
construct a boiled Indian pudding of such consistency that it 
could be thrown up chimney and come down on the grfunid, 
outside, without breaking ; and the consequence of Cerinthy 
Ann's sally was a general laugh.] 

AN ELDERLY LADY. 

[sententiously.] 

Girls a'n't what they used to be in my day. I 
remember my mother told me when she was thir- 
teen, she could knit a lonq; cotton stockino: in a dav. 

CERINTHY ANN. 

[appealing to the younger members at the frame.] 

I have n't much faith in these stories of old times, 
— have you, girls? 

MRS. TWITCHEL. 

At any rate, our minister's wife will be a pattern ; 
I don't know anybody that goes beyond her either 
in spinning or in fine stitching ! 

Curtain falls. 



62 WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 
Scene II. The same. 

Curtain rises on Mary Scudder sewing. 

[Suddenly the trip of a very brisk foot is heard in the 
kitchen, and Cerinthy Ann Twitchel makes her appearance 
at the door.] 

MARY. 

Why, Cerinthy, how glad I am to see you ! 

CERINTHY. 

Well, I have been meaning to come down all 
this week, but there's so much to do in haying time, 
but to-day I told mother I must come. I brought 
these down, 

[unfolding a dozen snowy napkins.] 
that I spun myself, and was thinking of you almost 
all the while I spun them, so I suppose they are n't 
quite so wicked as they might be. 

MARY. 

Thank you, Cerinthy. They are beautiful. 

CERINTHY. 

I don't see how you can keep so calm, when 
things are coming so near ! 

Mary smiles quietly. 

I don't see, for my part, how a young girl could 
marry a minister, anyhow ; but then I think you 
are just cut out for it. But what would anybody 
say, if / should do such a thing ? 



WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 63 

MARY. 



[innocently.] 
I don't know. 



CERINTHY. 



Well, I suppose everybody would hold up their 
hands ; and yet, if I do say it myself, there are not 
many girls who could make a better minister's wife 
than I could, if I had a mind to try. 

[coloring.] 

MARY. 

[warinly.] 

That I am sure of. 

CERINTHY. 

[giving an impatient toss.] 

I guess you are the only one that ever thought so. 
There 's father and mother all the while mourning 
over me ; and yet I don't see but what I do pretty 
much all that is done in the house, and they say I 
am a great comfort in a temporal point of view. 
But oh, the groanings and the sighings that there 
are over me ! I don't think it is pleasant to know 
that your best friends are thinking such awful things 
about you, when you are working your fingers off to 
help them. It is kind o' discouraging, but I don't 
know what to do about it. 

[and for a few moments Cerintliy sits silent, while her cheeks 
grow redder with something that she is going to say next.] 



64 WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 

Now, Mary, there is that creature. Well, you 
know, he won't take " No " for an answer. What 
shall I do? 

MARY. 

[rather archly.] 

Suppose then you try *' Yes." 

CERINTHY. 

Oh, pshaw ! Mary Scudder, you know better than 
that now. I look like it, don't I ? 

MARY. 

[looking at Cerinthy deliberately.] 

"Why, yes, on the whole I think you do. 

CERINTHY. 

Well ! one thing I must say, — I can't see what 
he finds in me. I think he is a thousand times too 
good for me. Why, you have no idea, Mary, how 
I have plagued him. Besides, I have told him 
everything I could think of to discourage him. I 
told him that I had a bad temper and did n't believe 
the doctrines, and could n't promise that I ever 
should ; and after all, that creature keeps right on, 
and I don't know what to tell him. 

MARY. 

[mildly.] 

Well, do you think you really love him ? 



WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? Q3 

CERINTHY. 

[giving a great flounce.] 

Love him ? to be sure I don't ! Catch me loving 
any man ! I told him last night I did n't, but it 
did n't do a bit of good. I used to think that man 
was bashful, but I declare I have altered my mind ; 
he will talk and talk till I don't know what to do. 
I tell you, Mary, he talks beautifully too, some- 
times. 

[Here Cerinthy turns quickly away, and begins playing 
with Mary's scissors and thread. After a few moments she 
resumes.] 

The fact is, Mary, that man needs somebody to 
take care of him ; for he never thinks of himself. 
They say he has got the consumption ; but he hasn't, 
any more than I have. It is just the way he neg- 
lects himself , — preaching, talking, and visiting; 
nobody to take care of him and see to his clothes, 
and nurse him up when he gets a little hoarse and 
run down. I do know how to keep things in order ; 
and if I should keep such a man's soul in his body, 
I should be doing some good in the world ; because 
if ministers don't live, of course they can't convert 
anybody. Just think of his saying that I could be 
a comfort to Jiim ! I told him that it was per- 
fectly ridiculous. "And besides," says I, "what will 
everybody think?" I thought that I had really 
talked him out of the notion of it last night ; but 
there he was in again this morning, and told me he 
had derived great encouragement from what I had 



6Q WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 

said. Well, the poor man really is lonesome, — his 
mother 's dead, and he has n't any sisters. I asked 
him why he did n't go and take Miss Olladine 
Slocum ; everybody says she would make a first- 
rate minister's wife. 

MARY. 

Well, and what did he say to that ? 

CERINTHY. 

[looking down.] 

Well, something really silly, — about my looks. 

MARY. 

[looking up at Cerinthy.] 

Probably he is a man of taste, Cerinthy ; I ad- 
vise you to leave the matter entirely to his judg- 
ment. ^ 

CERINTHY. 

You don't really, Mary! Don't you think it 
would injure 7i^??^, if I should ? 

MARY. 

I think not, materially. 

CERINTHY. 

[rising.] 

Well, the men will be coming home from the 
mowing before I get home, and want their supper. 
Mother has got one of her headaches on this after- 



WHO WOULD MARRY A MINISTER? 67 

noon, so I can't stop any longer. There is n't a 
soul in the house knows where anything is when I 
am gone. If I should ever take it into my head to 
go off, I don't know what would become of father 
and mother. 

MARY. 

Does your mother know anything about it ? 

CERINTHY. 

Oh, as to mother, I believe she has been hoping 
and praying about it these three months. She 
thinks I am such a desperate case, it is the only 
way I am to be brought in, as she calls it. That 's 
what set me against him at first ; but the fact is, if 
girls will let a man argue with them, he always 
contrives to get the best of it. I am kind of pro- 
voked about it too. But mercy on us! he is so 
meek, there is no use of getting provoked at him. 
Well, I guess I will go home and think about it. 

Curtain falls. 



THE ART OF BEDMAKING. 

(in one scene.) 



CHARACTERS. 

Miss Ophelia St. Cl>\.re. 

Eva St. Clare, cousin to Miss Ophelia. 

ToPSY, a little negress. 

Rosa, a quadroon g-irl. 

COSTUMES. 

Miss Ophelia. A plain full-skirted dress. 

Eva. a short, white, full-skirted dress, and a coral necklace. 

ToPSY. A printed cotton dress, clean, well-starched apron, and 
short hair. 

Rosa. A neat but g-ay cotton dress. Apron and coral ear- 
rings. 

ANALYSIS OF SCENE : PROPERTIES. 

Scene. A bedroom with exit. INIiss Ophelia instructs Topsy 
in the art of bedmaking. 

Properties. Table, chairs, bed, and bedclothes. Ribbon and 
gloves. Basket of clothes. 

Scene. A bedroom. 

[Miss Ophelia takes Topsy into her chamber, and solemnly 
commences a course of instruction in the art and mystery of 
bedmaking. Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all 
the little braided tails wherein her soul delighted, arrayed 



THE ART OF BEDMAKING. 69 

in a clean gown with well-starched apron, standing reverently 
before Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well 
befitting a funeral.] 

Curtain rises on Miss Ophelia and Topsy, 
MISS OPHELIA. 

Now, Topsy, I 'm going to show you just how 
my bed is to be made. I am very particular about 
my bed. You must learn exactly how to do it. 

TOPSY. 

[with a deep sigh and a face of wofiil earnestness.] 
Yes, ma'am. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Now, Topsy, look here : this is the hem of the 
sheet, this is the right side of the sheet, and this is 
the wrong ; will you remember ? 

TOPSY. 

[with another sigh.] 
Yes, ma'am. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Well now, the undersheet you must bring under 
the bolster, — so, — and tuck it clear down under 
the mattress, nice and smooth, — so ; — do you see ? 

TOPSY. 

[with profound attention.] 
Yes, ma'am. 



70 THE ART OF BEDMAKING. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But the upper sheet must be brought down in 
this way, and tucked under firm and smooth at the 
foot, — so, — the narrow hem at the foot. 

TOPSY. 

Yes, ma'am. 

[Miss Ophelia does not see that, during the time when the 
good lady's back is turned, in the zeal of her manipulations, 
the young disciple has contrived to snatch a pair of gloves 
and a ribbon, which she has adroitly slipped into her sleeves, 
and stands with her hands dutifully folded as before.] 

MISS OPHELIA. 

[pulHng off the clothes and seating herself.] 

Now, Topsy, let 's see you do this. 

[Topsy with great gravity and adroitness goes through the 
exercise completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction, smoothing 
the sheets, patting out every wrinkle, and exhibiting through 
the whole process a gravity and seriousness with which her 
instructress is greatly edified. By an unlucky slip, however, 
a fluttering fragment of the ribbon hangs out of one of her 
sleeves, just as she is finishing, and catches Miss Ophelia's 
attention.] 

MISS OPHELIA. 

[pouncing upon the ribbon.] 

What 's this ? You naughty, wicked child ! — 
you Ve been stealing this ! 

[The ribbon is pulled out of Topsy's own sleeve, yet she is 
not in the least disconcerted ; she only looks at it with an air 
of the most surprised and unconscious innocence.] 



THE ART OF BEDMAKING. 71 

TOPSY. 

Laws ! why, that 'ar 's Miss Feely's ribbon, ain't 
it ? How could it a-got caught in my sleeve ? 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie, 
— you stole that ribbon ! 

TOPSY. 

Missis, I declare for 't I did n't ; never see'd it 
till dis yer blessed minit. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Oh, Topsy ! Topsy ! don't you know it 's wicked 
to tell lies ? 

TOPSY. 

I never tells no lies, Miss Feely ; it 's jist the 
truth I 've been a-telling now, and ain't nothin' 
else. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies 

so. 

TOPSY. 
[beginning to blubber.] 

Laws, missis, if you 's to whip all day, could n't 
say no other way ; I never see'd dat 'ar, — it must 
have got caught in my sleeve. 



72 THE ART OF BED.MAKING. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

[indignantly catching the child and shaking her.] 

Don't you tell me that again ! 

[The shake brings the gloves on to the floor from the other 
sleeve.] 

There, you ! will you tell me now you did n't 
steal the ribbon ? 

TOPSY. 

No, missis, I'se never touched the ribbon ! I did 
take them gloves, but I never see'd dat 'ar ribbon 
till dis yer minit. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Now, Topsy, if you '11 confess all about it, I won't 
whip you this time. 

TOPSY. 

[with many sighs and tears.] 

Laws ! Miss Feely, den, I did take 'em, but I '11 
never do so no more. I know I 'se wicked. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Well, now, tell me, — I know you must have 
taken other things since you have been in the 
house. Now tell me if you took anything, and I 
shan't whip you. 

TOPSY. 

Laws, missis ! I took Miss Eva's red thing, 
she wa'ars on her neck. 



THE ART OF BEDMAKING. 73 

MISS OPHELIA. 

You did? You naughty child! Well, what 
else ? 

TOPSY. 

I took Eosa's yer-rings — them red ones. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Go bring them to me this minute, both of 'em. 

TOPSY. 

Laws, missis ! I can't — they 's burnt up ! 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Burnt up ! — what a story ! Go get 'em, or I '11 
whip you ! 

TOPSY. 

[with tears and groans.] 

I can't. Miss Feely, I can't ! They 's burnt up, 
they is. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

What did you burn 'em for ? 

TOPSY. 

'Cause I 'se wicked, I is. I 'se mighty wicked 
anyhow — I can't help it. 

[Just at that moment little Eva comes into the room with 
the identical coral necklace on her neck.] 



74 THE ART OF BEDMAKING. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Why, Eva ! where did you get your necklace ? 

EVA. 

Get it ? Why, I had it on all day 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Did you have it on yesterday ? 

EVA. 

Yes ; and what is funny, aunt}^, I had it on all 
night. I forgot to take it off when I went to bed. 

[Miss Ophelia looks perfectly bewildered, the more so, as 
Rosa, at that instant, comes into the room, with a basket of 
newly-ironed linen on her head, and the coral eardrops shak- 
ing in her ears.] 

MISS OPHELIA. 

[in despair.] 

I 'm sure I can't tefll what to do with such a 
child! What in the world did you tell me you 
took those things for, Topsy ? 

TOPSY. 

Why, missis said I must 'fess ; and I could n't 
think of nothin' else to 'fess. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

But, of course, I did n't want you to confess 
things you did n't do ; that 's telling a lie, just as 
much as the other. 



THE ART OF BEDMAKING. 75 

TOPSY. 

[with an air of innocent wonder.] 
Laws, now, is it ? 

ROSA. 

[looking indignantly at Topsy.] 

La, there ain't any such thing as truth in that 
limb. If I was Mas'r St. Clare, I 'd whip her till 
the blood run. I would — I 'd let her catch it ! 

EVA. 

[with an air of command.] 

No, no, Rosa ; you must n't talk so, Rosa ; I 
can't bear to hear it. 

ROSA. 

La sakes ! Miss Eva, you 's so good ; you don't 
know nothing how to get along with niggers. 
There 's no way but to cut 'em well up, I tell ye. 

EVA. 

Rosa ! hush ! Don't say another word of that 
sort I 

[Rosa is cowed in a moment and goes away. Eva stands 
looking at Topsy with a perplexed and sorrowful expression.] 

Poor Topsy, why need you steal ? You 're going 
to be taken srood care of now. I 'm sure I 'd rather 
give you anything of mine, than have you steal it. 

Curtain falls. 



THE POWER OF LOVE. 

(in one scene.) 



CHARACTERS. 

Augustine St. Clare. 

Miss Ophelia St. Clare, cousin to Augustine. 
Eva St. Clare, a little girl, daughter to Augustine. 
TopsY, a little negress, slave to Augustine St. Clare. 

COSTUMES. 

St. Clare. A cool and old-fashioned suit of clothes, such as 
■was worn by gentlemen in the morning, about 1850. 

Miss Ophelia. A handsome, full-skirted dress, lace shawl, 
" coal-scuttle " straw bonnet, trimmed with ribbons, etc. 

Eva. a white dress. 

TopsY. Bright cotton dress and white apron. 

ANALYSIS OF SCENE: PROPERTIES. 

Scene. A parlor with exit. Miss Ophelia finds Topsy in mis- 
chief and declares she will trouble herself with her no longer. 
Eva tries to persuade her to be good. 

Properties. Parlor furniture, mats, etc. 



Scene. A parlor. 

Curtain rises on St. Clare and Eva. 

[Eva comes at St. Clare's call, and sits on his knee. They 
soon hear loud exclamations from the next room and violent 
reproof addressed to somebody.] 



THE POWER OF LOVE. 77 

MISS OPHELIA (within). 
You naughty, wicked, wasteful child ! 

ST. CLARE. 

What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing? 
That commotion is of her raising, I '11 be bound. 

[And in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, 
comes dragging the culprit along.] 

Enter dfiss Ophelia with Topsy. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Come out here, now ! I loill tell your master ! 

ST. CLARE. 

What 's the case now ? 

MISS OPHELIA. 

The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this 
child any longer ! It 's past all bearing ; flesh and 
blood cannot endure it. Here I locked her up and 
gave her a hymn to study ; and what does she do 
but spy out where I put my key, and has gone to 
my bureau, and got a bonnet trimming, and cut it 
all to pieces to make dolls' jackets. I never saw 
anything like it in my life ! I 'm sure, Augustine, 
I don't know what to do. I 've taught and taught, 
I 've talked till I 'm tired ; I 've whipped her ; I 've 
punished her in every way I can think of, and still 
she 's just what she was at first. 



78 THE POWER OF LOVE. 

ST. CLARE. 

[amused at the child's expression.] 

Come here, Tops, you monkey ! What makes 
you behave so ? 

TOPSY. 

[demurely.] 

'Spects it's my wicked heart; Miss Feely says so. 

ST. CLARE. 

Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done 
for you ? She says she has done everything she can 
think of. 

TOPSY. 

Lor' yes, mas'r and old missis used to say so too. 
She whipped me a heap harder and used to pull my 
har and knock my head agin the door ; but it 
did n't do me no good. I 'sjDccts, if they 's to pull 
every speam o' har out o' my head, it would n't do 
no good, neither, I 's so wicked. Laws, I 's nothin' 
but a nigger, noways. 

MISS OPHELIA. 

Well, I shall have to give her up ; I can't have 
that trouble any longer. 

ST. CLARE. 

[rising from his seat.] 

Well, I 'd just like to ask one question. 



THE POWER OF LOVE. T9 

MISS OPHELIA. 

What Is it ? 

ST. CLARE. 

Why, if your gospel is not strong enough to save 
one heathen child that you can have at home here 
all to yourself, what 's the use of sending one or 
two poor missionaries off with it among thousands 
of just such ? I suppose this child is about a fair 
sample of what thousands of your heathen are. 

[Miss Ophelia does not make an immediate answer, and St. 
Clare leaves the room. His cousin follows him, a minute 
later, and the children are left alone.] 

Exeunt St. Clare and 3Iiss Ophelia. 

EVA. 

What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why 
won't you try and be good? Don't you love any- 
body, Topsy ? 

TOPSY. 

Dunno nothing 'bout love ; I loves candy and 
sich, that 's all. 

EVA. 

But you love your father and mother ? 

TOPSY. 

Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss 
Eva. 



80 THE POWER OF LOVE. 

EVA. 

[sadly.] 

Oh, I know ; but had n't you any brother, or 
sister, or aunt, or — 

TOPSY. 

No, none on 'em ; never had nothing nor no- 
body. 

EVA. 

But, Topsy, if you 'd only try to be good, you 
might — 

TOPSY. 

Could n't never be nothin' but a nigger, if I was 
ever so good. If I could be skinned and come 
white, I 'd try then. 

EVA. 

But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. 
Miss Ophelia would love you if you were good. 

[Topsy gives a short blunt laugh, expressive of incredu- 
lity.] 

Don't you think so ? 

TOPSY. 

[beginning to whistle.] 

No, she can't bar me 'cause I 'm a nigger I she 'd 's 
soon have a toad touch her ! There can't nobody 
love niggers, and niggers can't do nothin' ! / don't 
care ! 



THE POWER OF LOVE. 81 



[with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little, thin, 
white hand on Topsy's shoulder.] 

Oh, Topsy, poor child, / love you ! I love you 
because you have n't any father, or mother, or 
friends, because you have been a poor abused child. 
I love you, and I want you to be good. It really 
grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you 
would try to be good for my sake. 

[The round, keen eyes of the black child are overcast with 
tears ; large, bright drops roll heavily down, one by one, 
and fall on the little white hand. She lays her head down 
between her knees, and weeps and sobs, while the beautiful 
child bends over her.] 

Poor Topsy ! don't you know that Jesus loves all 
alike ? He is just as willing to love you as me. 
He loves you just as I do, only more because He is 
better. He will help you to be good ; and you can 
go to heaven at last, and be an angel forever, just 
as much as if you were white. Only think of it, 
Topsy! You can be one of those spirits bright, 
Uncle Tom sings about. 

TOPSY. 

Oh, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva ! I will try, 
I will try ! I never did care nothin' about it before. 

Curtain falls. 



THE PRACTICAL TEST. 

(in one scene.) 



CHARACTERS. 

Dr. Hopkins, a minister, 

Mb. Marvyn. 

Mrs. Marvyn, his wife. 

C AND ACE, a negress aiid slave to Mr. Marvyn. 

COSTUMES. 

Dr. Hopkins. Full coat and small-clothes of broadcloth, black 
silk stocking's, shoes with buckles. Cocked hat, full-bottomed 
wig. " White wrist ruffles " and " plaited shirt-bosom." 

Mr. Marvyn. Plain but neat coat and small-clothes. 

Mrs. Marvyn. Full stuff skirt and white "short-gown." 
Cap and apron. 

Candace. Linsey petticoat and bodice, clean white apron, and 
red and yellow turban, arranged " so as to give to her head the 
air of an immense butterfly." 

ANALYSIS OF SCENE : PROPERTIES. 

Scene. A parlor with exit. Dr. Hopkins proposes to Mr. Mar- 
vyn to offer freedom to his slaves. 

Peopebties. Furniture, mats, etc. , suitable for a sitting-room. 



THE PRACTICAL TEST. 83 

Scene. A parlor. 

Curtain rises on Mr. and Mrs. Marvyn and Dr. Hopkins, 
DR. HOPKINS. 

My mind labors with this subject of the enslav- 
ing o£ the Africans, Mr. Marvyn. We have just 
been declarino^ to the world that all men are born 
with an inalienable right to liberty. We have 
fought for it, and the Lord of Hosts has been with 
us ; and can we stand before Him with our foot 
upon our brother's neck? 

MR. MARVYN. 

[Mr. Marvyn's face flushes, his eye kindles, and his com- 
pressed respiration shows how deeply the subject moves him. 
Mrs. Marvyn's eyes cast on him a look of anxious inquiry.] 

Doctor, I have thought of the subject myself. 
Mrs. Marvyn has lately been reading a pamphlet 
of Mr. Thomas Clarkson's, on the slave trade, and 
she was saying to me only last night, that she did 
not see but the argument extended equally to hold- 
ing slaves. One thing, I confess, stumbles me : 
Was there not an express permission given to Israel 
to buy and hold slaves of old ? 

DR. HOPKINS. 

Doubtless ; but many permissions were given to 
them which were local and temporary, for if we 
hold them to apply to the human race, the Turks 
might quote the Bible for making slaves of us, if 



84 THE PRACTICAL TEST. 

they could, — and the Algerines have the Scripture 
all on their side, — and our own blacks, at some fu- 
ture time, if they can get the power, might justify 
themselves in making slaves of us. 

MR. MARVYN. 

I assure you, sir, if I speak, it is not to excuse 
myself. But I am quite sure my servants do not 
desire liberty, and would not take it if it were of- 
fered. 

DR. HOPKINS. 

Call them in and try it. If they refuse, it is 
their own matter. 

MR. MARVYN. 

[calmly.] 

Cato is up at the light-acre lot, but you may call 
in Candace. My dear, call Candace, and let the 
Doctor put the question to her. 

Exit 3Irs. Marvyn, reentering in a minute or two followed by Candace. 
[Candace sinks a dutiful curtsy, and stands twirling her 
thumbs, while the Doctor surveys her gravely.] 

DR. HOPKINS. 

Candace, do you think it right that the black 
race should be slaves to the white ? 

[The face and air of Candace present a curious picture at 
this moment ; a sort of rude sense of delicacy embarrasses 
her, and she turns a deprecating look, first on Mrs. Marvyn 
and then on her master.] 



THE PRACTICAL TEST. 85 

MR. MARVYN. 

Don't mind us, Candace ; tell the Doctor the 
exact truth. 

CANDACE. 

[After a moment's pause, ber immense person heaving with 
her labored breathing.] 

Ef I must speak, I must. No, — I neber did 
tink 't was right. When Gineral Washington was 
here, I hearn 'em read de Declaration ob Indepen- 
dence and Bill o' Rights ; an' I tole Cato den, says 
I, " Ef dat ar' true, you an' I are as free as any- 
body." It stands to reason. Why, look at me, — 
I ain't a critter. I 's neider huffs nor horns. I 's 
a reasonable bein' — a woman — as much a woman 
as anybody. 

[holding up her head with an air as majestic as a palm-tree.] 
An' Cato, he 's a man born free an' equal, ef dar 's 
any truth in what you read. Dat 's all. 

MR. MARVYN. 

But, Candace, you 've always been contented and 
happy with us, have you not ? 

CANDACE. 

Yes, Mass'r, — I ha'n't got nuffin to complain 
ob in dat matter. I could n't hab no better friends 
'n you an' Missis. 

MR. MARVYN. 

Would you like your liberty, if you could get it, 
though ? Answer me honestly. 



86 THE PRACTICAL TEST. 

CANDACE. 

Why, to be sure I should ! Who would n't ? 
Mind ye, 

[earnestly raising her black, heavy hand.] 
ta' on't dat I want to go off, or want to shirk work ; 
but I want to feel free, Dem dat is n't free has 
nuffin to gib to nobody ; ' — dey can't show what 
dey would do. 

MR. MARVYN. 

[solemnly.] 

Well, Candace, from this day you are free. 

[Candace covers her face with both her fat hands, and 
shakes and trembles, and finally, throwing her apron over her 
head, makes a desperate rush for the door, and throws her- 
self down in the kitchen in a perfect torrent of tears and 
sobs.] 

Exit Candace. 

DR. HOPKINS. 

You see what freedom is to every human crea- 
ture. The blessing of the Lord will be upon this 
deed, Mr. Marvyn. " The steps of a just man are 
ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth in his way." 

Eeenter Candace. 
[her butterfly turban somewhat deranged with the violence 
of her prostration.] 

CANDACE. 

[with a clearing-up snuff.] 

I want ye all to know, dat it 's my will an' pleas- 
ure to go right on doin' my work jes' de same ; an', 



THE PRACTICAL TEST. 87 

Missis, please, I '11 allers put three eggs in de crul- 
lers, now ; an' I won't turn de wash-basin down in 
de sink, but hang it jam-up on de nail ; an' I won't 
pick up chips in a milkpan, ef I 'm in ever so big 
a hurry; — I'll do eberyting jes' as ye tells me. 
Now you try me an' see ef I won't. 

MR. MARVYN. 

I intend to make the same offer to your husband, 
when he returns from work to-night. 

CANDACE. 

Laws, Mass'r, — why, Cato, he '11 do jes' as I do, 
— dere ain't no kind o' need o' askin' him. 
Course he will ! 

Curtain falls. 



THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING. 

(in one scene.) 



CHARACTERS. 

Sam Lawson, the " do-nothing," " a tall, shambling, loose- 
jointed" man. 
Aunt Lois. 

COSTUMES. 

Sam Lawson, in loose, shabby, untidy clothes. 
Aunt Lois, a stuff petticoat and printed cotton '"short-gown," 
and apron. 

ANALYSIS OF SCENE: PROPERTIES. 

Scene. A kitchen with exit. Sam Lawson comes to mend the 
clock, and is reproved by Aunt Lois for his dilatoriness. 

Properties. Plain chairs, and other kitchen furniture. Table 
with clock-weights, wheels, etc. upon it. 

Scene. A kitchen. 

Curtain rises on Aunt Lois and Sam Lawson smoking. 
SAM LAWSON. 

Why, ye see, Miss Lois, clocks can't be druv ; 
that 's jest what they can't. Some things can be 
druv, and then again some things can't, and clocks 
is that kind. They 's jest got to be humored. 



THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING. 89 

Now this 'ere 's a 'mazin' good clock ; give me my 
time on it, and I '11 have it so 't will keep straight 
on to the Millennium. 

AUNT LOIS. 

[with a snort of infinite contempt.] 
Millennium ! 

SAM LAWSON. 

[letting fall his work in a contemplative manner.] 

Yes, the Millennium : that 'ere 's an interestin' 
topic. Now Parson Lothrop, he don't think the 
Millennium will last a thousand years. What's 
your 'pinion on that pint, Miss Lois ? 

AUNT LOIS. 

[in her most nipping tones.] 

My opinion is, that if folks don't mind their own 
business, and do with their might what their hand 
finds to do, the Millennium won't come at all. 

SAM LAWSON. 

Wal, you see, Miss Lois, it 's just here : — one 
day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a 
thousand years as one day. 

AUNT LOIS. 

I should think you thought a day was a thousand 
years, the way you work. 



90 THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHTXG. 

SAM LAWSON. 

[sitting down with his back to his desperate litter of wheels, 
weights, and pendulums, and meditatively caressing his knee 
as he watches the sailing clouds in abstract meditation.] 

Wal, ye see, ef a thing 's ordained, why it 's got 
to be, ef you don't lift a finger. That 'ere 's so now, 
ain't it ? 

AUNT LOIS. 

Sam Lawson, you are about the most aggravat- 
ing creature I ever had to do with. Here you 've 
got our clock all to pieces, and have been keeping 
up a perfect hurrah's nest in our kitchen for three 
days, and there you sit maundering and talking 
with your back to your work, fussing about the 
Millennium, which is none of your business, or 
mine, as I know of ! Do either put that clock to- 
gether or let it alone ! 

SAM LAWSON. 

Don't you be a grain uneasy. Miss Lois ! Why, 
I '11 have your clock all right in the end, but I can't 
be druv. Wal, I guess I '11 take another spell on 't 
to-morrow or Friday. 

AUNT LOIS. 

[horror-stricken, but seeing herself actually in the hands of 
the imperturbable enemy, now essays the task of concilia- 
tion.] 

Now do, Lawson, just finish up this job, and I '11 
pay you down, right on the spot ; and you need the 
money. 



THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING. 91 

SAM LAWSON. 

I 'd like to 'blige you, Miss Lois ; but ye see 
money ain't everything in this world. E£ I work 
tew long on one thing, my mind kind o' gives out, 
ye see ; and besides, I 've got some 'sponsibilities to 
'tend to. There 's Mrs. Captain Brown, she made 
me promise to come to-day and look at the nose o' 
that 'ere silver teapot o' hern ; it 's kind o' sprung 
a leak. And then I 'greed to split a little oven- 
wood for the Widdah Pedee, that lives up on the 
Shelburn road. Must visit the widdahs in their 
affliction, Scriptur' says. And then there 's Hepsy : 
she's allers a-castin' it up at me that I don't do 
nothing for her and the chil'en ; but then, lordy 
massy, Hepsy hain't no kind o' patience. Why jest 
this mornin' I was a-tellin' her to count up her 
marcies, and I 'clare for 't if I did n't think she 'd 
'a' throwed the tongs at me. That 'ere woman's 
temper railly makes me consarned. Wal, good day, 
Miss Lois, I '11 be along again to-morrow or Friday 
or the first o' next week. 

Exit Sam singing. 

Thy years are an 

Etarnal day, 
Thy years are an 
. Etarnal day. 

AUNT LOIS. 

[with a snap.] 

An Eternal torment ! I 'm sure, if there 's a 
mortal creature on this earth that I pity, it 's Hepsy 



92 THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING. 

Lawsoii. Folks talk about her scolding. That 
Sam Lawson is enough to make the saints in 
heaven fall from grace. And you can't do any- 
thing with him ; it 's like charging bayonet into a 
woolsack. 

Curtain /alls on Aunt Lois. 



SAM LAWSON'S THANKSGIVING 
DINNER. 

(in one scene.) 



CHARACTERS. 

Sam Lawson. 

Mrs. Badger. 

Miss Lois, her daughter. 

Horace and Harry, two little boys. 

COSTUMES. 

Sam Lawson. A loose, untidy suit of clothes. 
Mrs. Badger. A plain skirt and bodice of dark stuff, -white 
cap, apron and handkerchief, pinned round her neck. 

Miss Lois. Stuff skirt, cotton " short-gown," and apron. 

The boys. Knickerbockers and blouses, belted round the waist. 

ANALYSIS OF SCENE: PROPERTIES. 

Scene. Kitchen with exit. Mrs. Badger rebukes Sam for his 
idleness and gives him a turkey. 

Properties. Plain furniture, a turkey, and two pies. Also 
apples, raisins, etc. 

Scene. A kitchen. 

Curtain rises on Mrs. Badger, Miss Lois, Harry and Horace, chopping mince- 
meat, paring apples, etc. 

MISS LOIS. 

There, to be sure, — there comes Sam Lawson 
down the hill, limpsy as ever. Now he '11 have his 



94 SAM LAWSOiYS THANKSGIVING DINNER. 

doleful story to tell, and mother '11 give him one of 
the turkeys. 

Enter Sam Lawson . 
[Sam comes in with his usual air of plaintive assurance, 
and seats himself a contemplative spectator in the chimney- 
corner, regardless of the looks and signs of unwelcome on the 
part of Aunt Lois.] 

SAM LAWSON. 

[in musing tones.] 

Lordy massy, how prosperous everything does 
seem here ! so different from what 't is t' our house. 
There 's Hepsy, she 's all in a stew, an' I 've just 
been an' got her thirty-seven cents wuth o' nut- 
megs, yet she says she 's sure she don't see how 
she 's to keep Thanksgiving, an' she 's down on me 
about it, jest as ef 't was my fault. Yeh see, last 
winter our old gobbler got froze. You know. Mis' 
Badger, that 'ere cold night we hed last winter. 
Wal, I was off with Jake Marshall that night. Ye 
see, Jake, he hed to take old General Dearborn's 
corpse into Boston to the family vault, and Jake 
he kind o' hated to go alone, 't was a drefful cold 
time, and he ses to me, " Sam, you jes' go 'long with 
me ; " so I was sort o' sorry for him, and I kind o' 
thought I 'd go 'long. Wal, come 'long to Josh 
Bissel's tahvern, there at the Halfway House, you 
know, 't was so swinging cold we stopped to take a 
little suthin' warmin', an' we sort o' sot an' sot over 
the fire, till, fust we knew, we kind o' got asleep ; 
an' when we woke up we found we 'd left the old 



SAM LAWSON'S THANKSGIVING DINNER. 95 

General hitched up t' th' post pretty much all night. 
Wal, did n't hurt him none, poor man ; 't was allers 
a favorite spot o' his'n. But takin' one thing with 
another, I did n't get home till about noon next 
day, an', I tell you, Hepsy she was right down on 
me. She said the baby was sick, and there had n't 
been no wood split, nor the barn fastened up, nor 
nothin'. Lordy massy, I did n't mean no harm ; I 
thought there was wood enough, and I thought 
likely Hepsy 'd git out an' fasten up the barn. But 
Hepsy, she was in one o' her contrary streaks, an' 
she would n't do a thing ; an' when I went out to 
look, why, sure 'nuff , there was our old tom-turkey 
froze as stiff as a stake, — his claws jest a-stickin' 
right straight up like this. 

[Here Sam strikes an expressive attitude, and looks so 
much like a frozen turkey as to give a pathetic reality to the 
picture.] 

MRS. BADGER. 

Well now, Sam, why need you be off on things 
that 's none of your business? I Ve talked to you 
plainly about that a great many times, Sam. ' 

[continuing in tones of severe admonition,] 
Hepsy is a hard-working woman, but she cannot be 
expected to see to everything, and you oughter have 
been at home that night to fasten up your own barn 
and look after your own creeturs. 

[Sam takes the rebuke all the m-ore meekly as he perceives 
the stiff black legs of a turkey poking out from under my 
grandmother's apron, while she is delivering it.] 



96 SAM LAWSON'S THANKSGIVING DINNER. 

See now, Sam, take these to Hepsy, and the chil- 
dren. 

[giving him the turkey and taking two pies from the table.] 
Poor things ! they ought to have something good 
to eat Thanksgiving day ; 't ain't their fault tliat 
they 've got a shiftless father. Here^ hoys, you' 
carry these pies down to Hepsy ! 
[giving one to each boy.] 

SAM LAWSON. 

Thanks, Mis' Badger. A body 'd think that 
Hepsy 'd learn to trust in Providence, but she don't. 
She allers hes a Thanksgiving dinner pervided; 
but that 'ere woman ain't grateful for it, by no man- 
ner o' means. Now she '11 be jest as cross as she 
can be, 'cause this 'ere ain't our turkey, and these 
'ere ain't our pies. Folks does lose so much that 
hes sech dispositions. 

EzU Sam, followed by the two boys carrying the pies. 
Curtain falls. 



C]^e ISibemue literature ^eriejs. 

^A list of the first twenty-seven numbers is given on the next page."] 



28. John Burroughs's Birds and Bees.t 

29. Hawthorne's Little Daffydovrndilly, and other Stories. 

[29 and 10 also in one volume, board covers, 40 ceiits.] 

30. Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal, and Other Pieces. 

31. Holmes's My Hunt after the Captain, and other Papers. 

32. Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech, and Other Papers. 

33. 34, 35. Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn. In three parts. 

[The three parts also in one volume, board covers, 50 cent?.] 

36. John Burroughs's Sharp Eyes, and other Papers.! 

t 28 and 36 also in one volume, board covers, 40 cents. 

EXTRA NUMBERS. 
A American Authors and their Birthdays. PiOjrrammes and 

Sugi^estions for the Celebration of the Birthdays of Authors. With a Record of 
I'our Years' Work in the Study of American Authors. By Alfred S. K0£, Pria- 
cipal of the High School, Worcester, Mass. 

£ Portraits and Biographical Sketches of Twenty American 

Authors. 

C A Longfellow Night. A Short Sketch of the Poet's Life, with 
songs and recitations from his works. For the use of Catholic Schools and Cath- 
olic Literary Societies. By Katherine A. 0"KjiJiFK. 

PARTIAL PROSPECTUS FOR THE SCHOOL YEAR 1888-9. 

To be published as indicated below. 

Single numbers 15 cents each. Subscription for the six ntw numbers, SO cents. 

1888. 

Oct. 3. 37. Charles Dudley Warner's A-Hunting of the Deer, 

and Other Papers. 

Nov. 7. 38. Longfellow's The Building of the Ship; Pandora's 

Box ; and Other Poems. With Notes. 

Dec. 5. 39. Lowell's Books and Libraries, and other Papers. 

1889. 

' Feb. 6. 40. Hawthorne. Selections to be announced later. 
Mar. 6. 41. To be announced. 
Apr. 5. -42. To be announced. 

EXTRA NUMBERS. 

1883. 

Oct. 3. Z> Literature jn School; Tho rjjice of T.itemtnre in Com- 
mon Schonl K lii.ation : Nnrsi-rv riiissics in f^choyl ; Anieric;in Clas- 
sics in s^choui. By Horace E. ScuDDER. 

Dec. 5. E Dialogues and Scenes from the "Writings of Harriet 

Beecher Stowe. By Emilv Weaver. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
4 Park Sxrekt. Boston, Mass. 



*Cl)e ISiticrsiiDe Uttxatmz ^mt$, 

Wtth Introductions, Notes, Historical Sketches, and Biographical Sketches* 
Each number, tn paper covers, 15 cents. 



1. Longfellow's Evangeline. 

2. Longfellow's The Courtship of Miles Standish. 

3. Longfellow's The Courtship of Miles Standish. 

Dramatized for private theatricals in schools and families. 

4. Whittier's Snow-Bound, and Among the Hills. 

5. Whittier's Mabel Martin, Cobbler Keezar, Maud 

Muller, and other Poems. 

6. Holmes's Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill 

Battle, and other Poems. 
7, 8, 9. Hawthorne's True Stories from New England 

History. In three parts.f 

10. Hawthorne's Biographical Stories. 

Sir Isaac Newton, Samuel Johnson, Oliver Cromwell, Benjamin 
Franklii, Queen Christina. With Questions. 

[29 and 10 bound together in board covers, 40 cents.] 

11. Longfellow's The Children's Hour, and other Se- 

lections. 

12. Studies in Longfellow. Containing Thirty-two Topics for 

Study, with Questions and References relating to each Topic. 
IS, 14. Longfellow's The Song of Hiawatha. In two parts.j 

15. Lowell's Under the Old Elm, and other Poems. 

16. Bayard Taylor's Lars ; a Pastoral of Norway. 
17, 18. Hawthorne's Wonder-Book. In two parts.j 

19, 20. Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography. With a chap- 
ter completing the Life. In two parts.} 
21. Benjamin Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanac, and 

other Papers. 
22, 23. Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales. In two parts.} 
24. Washington's Rules of Conduct, Letters, and Ad- 
dresses. 
25, 26. Longfellow's The Golden Legend. In two parts.} 
87. Thoreau's Succession of Forest Trees, and Wild 
Apples. With a Biographical Sketch by Rajlph 
Waldo Emersox. 

t Also in one volume, board covers, 45 cents. 
t Also in one volume, board covers, 40 cents. 

Continued on the inside of this cover. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
4 Pakk Street, Boston, Mass. 

H121.74 « 







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